The Game of Princes: The Taken Heirs
by Morninglight
Summary: Part 2 of The Game of Princes AU where Cousland/Alistair never become Wardens. Having survived the betrayal of Loghain and Nate Howe, Mara, Alistair, Daveth and Jory must contend with both a Blight and an enemy ruthless enough to murder mothers and steal the heirs of those nobles lost at Ostagar. But the foursome have more allies - and stranger ones - than they know...
1. Prologue

Note: Thanks for the reviews. This is the second part of _The Game of Princes._ I hope you enjoy. I have Rapture's Witcher for DA mod installed plus a few more which bring DA2 stuff into DAO; so there'll be descriptions of several different armours…

…

**Prologue**

_Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all._

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Lothering, 19th Umbralis 9:30

"You're not cutting your hair."

Mara lowered her mig but kept a thick tress of white-gold hair twisted for the cut as Alistair strode towards her. They'd managed to scrape together enough coin and loot from the bandits and taking on a few jobs from the Chantry Board to outfit their party in less conspicuous armour; the prince had received a set of heavy steel chainmail from the leader of the main bandit group, much to his discomfort… Daveth had pulled on a brown leather jacket and breeches over his rough linen shirt whilst Jory chose a nondescript set of grey iron chainmail. Zevran found a black leather coat and breeches with matching boots; they were a little big for him but he seemed pleased enough with his find because he considered himself to look very dashing.

Mara herself had managed to acquire a lay sister's robe from the Revered Mother, who was both relieved and fearful to see her in the Chantry. The faint scent of Orlesian lavender told her it once belonged to Leliana… It was fitting that Mara wear the robes of the woman who'd died for her children. She vowed while kissing her dagger that she would not let Leliana's death be in vain.

Her tattoo wasn't uncommon in this part of Ferelden, so close to the Korcari Wilds, but when combined with her long fair hair and enormous blue eyes, she was instantly recognisable. So the simplest thing was to cut off most of her tresses and dye them another colour…

Except Alistair was insisting she keep her hair the way it was. The royal bastard had that mulish set to his strong jaw as he looked down at Mara who was sitting cross-legged by the fire in order to burn the cut-off hair. "It is necessary," she told him practically. "Nate is looking for me and has offered money for people to bring me to him. If I'm not so recognisable…"

"I… just think it's too beautiful to cut," he finally said, falling carefully to his knees with a jingle of metal. "But… you're probably right. I…"

Alistair was a bundle of contradictions. When it came to war or the law, he was decisive and certain of himself; whether he knew it or not, he was born to rule, born to command, despite the best efforts of Arl Eamon and the Chantry to rip out his backbone. But when it came to romance, he didn't command: he coaxed, he cajoled, and he even blushed now and then. It was a strange feeling to be… courted? Or was she already won?

How could she be thinking of romance when her children were in the hands of Anora?

Something must have shown in her expression because Alistair reached out to touch her cheek reassuringly, metal-covered fingers cool and gentle as they ran down the groove of a facial scar. "We'll save them," he promised quietly. "Anora has every reason to keep your babes safe and whole."

"I… Maybe if I'd stayed or gone-" she began, feeling guilty that her selfishness had caused so much grief for so many people, but Alistair's fingers were on her lips, stilling the words before she could utter them.

_"No."_ The word was emphatic, his golden eyes suddenly hard. "Nathanial Howe's lies started all of… _this._ As for leaving your children, you did your duty as Bann of Whitebridge and went to Ostagar. I won't tell you to stop wallowing in guilt because it is obvious words can't make you feel better… But I won't let you say that you should have gone or stayed with that…" Alistair stopped, obviously wanting to use a strong word but unable to overcome his Chantry upbringing.

Mara studied his face: the subtly broken straight, slightly overlarge nose, the couple minor facial scars from past battles, the intense amber-brown eyes, the thin, chiselled mouth, and that messy shock of short, brandy-hued hair. "We're going to need to dye your hair too," she found herself saying, trying to focus on what needed doing instead of just staring at him. Her children… Ferelden itself… was in danger and here she was mooning over Alistair like Alindra in the tower longing for her soldier.

"So you're not cutting your hair then?" he murmured, that light tenor suddenly pleased.

"…I didn't say that!" she protested hastily.

"No, but you implied it." Alistair smiled, his expression a bit on the smug side.

"Smug _bastardo_," she muttered.

"Guilty as charged," he replied, fingers drifting down her chin in a cool caress. "Maker's breath… You are so damned beautiful."

She found herself leaning closer, drowning in those beautiful golden eyes, and was a heartbeat away from kissing him when Cu barked, announcing the arrival of Daveth and Zevran from the merchant near the Chantry. Barkspawn barked at him chidingly and the male mabari whined apologetically as he looked in her and Alistair's direction. An answering bark from Fluffy, the mabari who'd imprinted on Daveth, confirmed the rogue duo's identities.

Passion flared in those golden eyes. "I'd steal a kiss from you but that would just remind you of that…" Alistair closed his eyes, something like pain crossing his features briefly. "Just… please don't go cold on me?"

"How can I be cold when I have you to keep me warm?" she breathed… and then just realised how it would sound to the two men, one a former lover and the other… well… _experienced_ in the ways of the flesh, as they joined them in the rough camp just north of Lothering.

"See, Zev? I told ya she'd be back in the saddle soon enough," Daveth said cheerfully to the Antivan elf. "Mara ain't the sort ta let a prick like Howe keep her down."

"From what you have said and what I know of her training, our little Chantry Boy's in for _quite_ the education," Zev agreed, sounding envious for a moment.

"I can punch them if you'd like," Alistair offered to Mara as, in spite of herself, she began to blush. "I'd feel a bit bad about Zev but I can punch Daveth all day if I have to."

"I, for one, would welcome intimacy between you two if it meant the end of the doe-eyed looks and longing sighs shared across the campfire," Morrigan called out from her watch fire about twenty feet away.

"Love can't be forced; it grows slowly in its own time," Jory told the others. "It took me three years to court Helena and we didn't consummate our love until we were wed."

"'Twould have taken you about three years to figure out what went where," Morrigan countered derisively, much to Daveth and Zevran's snickering amusement. "'Tis my hope your wife was no virgin then."

Jory flushed darkly. "Helena was a widow," he admitted. "But it doesn't mean I didn't know what to do!"

"He was a virgin," Daveth said sagely to Zevran, who nodded in shrewd agreement. Mara was starting to feel sorry for the poor knight who had to struggle along under the weight of his duty as a Grey Warden and endure the barbed witticisms of the witch, the thief and the assassin into the bargain.

"_I_ am a virgin," Alistair said sharply, rising to his feet. "Does anyone want to make a joke about it?"

Given he was over six feet of pure muscle wrapped in heavy steel chainmail and carrying an enchanted templar's sword – plus was trained to suppress magic – the witch, the thief and the assassin decided not to take him up on his offer. Instead they went about taking first watch in Daveth's case, grabbing a shovel to dig the latrine trench in Zevran's, or cooking the few meagre rabbits they'd trapped in Morrigan's.

Jory, Mara and Alistair had managed to scavenge enough canvas from abandoned wagons to make three rough tents; Mara never thought she'd be grateful for all the endless lessons in sewing and embroidery her mother, Rennio and Bann Ceorlic's wife had put her through… The Wardens shared one, Zev and Alistair the second, and Mara had the third to herself as Morrigan elected to sleep in animal form rather than share a shelter.

But with winter well on its way, they would need better shelters and camping equipment or risk being bogged down or frozen to death by the wind and snow. Trained as the administrator of a castle, Mara worried at the problem almost constantly, knowing that they needed to worry about supplies as well…

"We need to decide where to go first," Alistair mused later as he cracked open the shinbone of a rabbit's hindquarter to suck out the marrow within. They'd opted for necessity over concealment because of the still-wet dyes Mara had concocted for her and Alistair, the most recognisable of the group, and now huddled by the main fire under rough blankets of wolf skins Morrigan had tanned.

"I… wish to go to Highever but Redcliffe may be the safer bet," Mara said softly, enduring the cold unpleasantness of the bramble leaves boiled in rye that she'd put through her hair to darken it. Given that brown or black hair was prevalent around here because of the Chasind living nearby, Daveth was fine, and Alistair could pass because of his suntanned skin… Jory was known as a Knight of Redcliffe (which Alistair was also going to claim to be) and Morrigan was to be the Chasind wife of the wilderness guide Daveth was claiming to be. Mara, of course, was the lay Chantry sister sent ahead to Redcliffe to alert Revered Mother Hannah of the coming Blight…

"That may be no bad idea. If Crabby's right, some soldiers survived, an' not all of them will answer ta them bastards," Daveth agreed as he worried at a strip of tough rabbit meat with his teeth. "An' I'm bettin', if what Morrigan described is true an' Bann Teagan had the smarts ta withdraw, that's where he'll go."

"Then Redcliffe it is," Jory agreed. "Unless Zevran and Morrigan have other ideas…?"

"Not at all," Zevran said lazily. "I just want a proper bed and meal."

"'Twill suffice, I suppose," Morrigan replied boredly. She rose to her feet. "'Tis time for second watch, it seems."

"I will take it with you," Mara promptly said. "My hair needs to dry anyways."

And it would be good to speak to the witch privately. It had been long since they'd talked together… and there were things Mara wanted to discuss with her slightly older, wiser friend.

They went to Morrigan's fire near the mouth of the tiny gully where they were camped and looked out into the darkness as Cu joined them. "We have much work ahead of us," Mara mused as she sat down on a log and continued to comb the vile stuff in her long hair through her locks to be certain it would dye evenly.

"Indeed," Morrigan agreed. "'Twould be wise, you know, to seek out this Loghain and Nathanial Howe and kill them before we do anything else."

"If I could find a way through their army without being recognised, they would already be dead," Mara said grimly. "But I will see Anora die for what she has done. No one takes my babies and kills my friends and escapes unscathed."

"I know fifteen different poisons which will have her scream herself bloody," Morrigan suggested.

"And forgive me, but I know nine more, and three which will see her die in her sleep, and six that would turn her mad and need to be locked in the Fort Drakon for her own good…" But Mara shook her head. "I will not indulge my need for vengeance in torture. She will die quickly and cleanly."

"Best to be certain," the witch agreed before an arched eyebrow rose. "So… you and the Prince? A sound match, though perhaps a bit sickeningly sweet for my liking."

"He is… like Antivan Fire Brandy. Smooth and sweet to the taste but burns like the fires of a rage demon in your gullet if you drink it too quickly," she replied, blushing just a little. "He… warms me. And he scares me a little."

"Why is that, I wonder?" Morrigan asked, genuinely curious.

"Because there is no force greater than an honest man with righteous fury on his side," Mara said softly. "The truly righteous can become the greatest of all evils… for they wreak atrocities in the name of all that is good."

"'Tis so," Morrigan agreed. "Yet I am to assume you do not intend to… _guide_… him?"

"I cannot. Alistair is a tidal wave who sets his own path. You, I, Zevran, the Wardens…? We must flow with it or be swept away." Mara looked north towards Highever. "You do not know what it means to be a Cousland in the presence of a Theirin."

Morrigan made a soft noise of scepticism but listened as Mara continued. "Calenhad conquered most of Ferelden before he came to Highever. Elethea Cousland fought a few skirmishes but realised that he would win. So she surrendered to him on the condition that she would be allowed to keep her teyrnir and the Couslands be counted amongst the highest of the lords of the land."

The blue-eyed woman stared into the fire. "Always, the Couslands have stood at the right of the Theirins until the Orlesian invasion. My great-grandfather died protecting the King. But with the ending of the occupation by the hand of Loghain Mac Tir, the Teyrn of Gwaren rose to the right hand, and with Maric's Queen Rowan coming from the Guerrins, the Arl of Redcliffe stood at the left."

"But your family is respected, yes?" Morrigan asked, sounding a touch confused.

"Aye. Enough that when King Maric died, there was talk of my father taking the throne instead of Cailan because of the Prince's youth… But my father bent knee to Cailan because it was the oath we swore to the Theirins long ago."

"That was foolish. Had your father been King, if he possessed half the intelligence you do, you might have been at Ostagar," Morrigan pointed out acerbically. "Honour is a fool's conceit."

"There is honour and then there is _honour._ I speak not of the honour of duels and egos but the honour of oaths made in blood and steel, carried through generations of service… The Theirins have as their motto _Until the End._ The Couslands are simply _Always True._"

Morrigan shook her head in exasperation. "Mara, you are one of the most sensible people I know yet would you persist in remaining loyal to one whom has betrayed you just because of some family motto?"

"If the Couslands were ever stripped of Highever by the Theirins unjustly, our oaths would become invalid," Mara countered dryly. "But so long as the Theirins are true to us, we are true to them."

"Ah. A relationship of mutual respect. Still, your family should have taken the throne or at least married _you_ to Cailan…"

"A good thing they didn't because it would make me and Mara's relationship a little awkward," Alistair joked as he and Jory arrived to take third watch. It was a little flat as his voice had softened with grief, but the Theirin always managed to find something to laugh about at the worst of times.

"Well, I _suppose_ you are not _entirely_ stupid," Morrigan conceded as she and Mara arose.

"Be nice," Alistair told her wryly.

"I _am_. You are not yet bleeding." With those words, she turned into a wolf and curled up to sleep by the fire.

"Get some rest," Alistair told Mara gently. "We've a long walk ahead of us tomorrow."

She smiled at him and obeyed… for he was a Theirin and she a Cousland and always she would stand at his right side for so long as he would have her there.

…

The Imperial Highway, 21st Umbralis 9:30

"Arl Howe? We've a man here to see you."

Ser Cauthrien's voice was carefully neutral as Nate pulled on his plain green cloak against the chill as he emerged from one of the few tents available for the army. Until Mara could be found and brought safely back to him, he knew he'd have trouble sleeping at night… Loghain's second-in-command also wouldn't have bothered him unless it concerned the Runaway Wife…

The man, a shabby-looking piece of scum who looked like he'd been beaten and choked recently, immediately fell to his knees and started babbling about Mara and Grey Wardens and some broken-nosed bastard in fine heavy plate who'd picked him with one hand and demanded answers… "Get a hold of yourself, man!" Nate rasped, resisting the urge to smack him.

"Begging your pardon, ser, I've been running these past three days," the thug apologised. "Me and some friends were… charging tolls to… refugees from the south when this little lass in blue and white armour with long winter-sun hair and eyes like the sky came along in the company of Daveth, an old friend of mine, some other Warden, a Chasind apostate and the bastard who choked me… I didn't see her at first because she was behind the bastard in heavy plate and I was prepared to let Daveth past for old time's sakes if'n he didn't want to join us…"

For scum, the man had a poetic turn of phrase: 'winter-sun hair and eyes like the sky' was going to go into Nate's repertoire for courting Mara. But the bandit was babbling and Nate sighed, the sound his father used to make when his patience was being tried. "You are certain it was she?"

"There could only be one lass with white-gold hair, blue eyes and a blue Chasind tattoo wearing that sort of fancy armour in the south, milord," the bandit retorted automatically – then paled as he realised he'd just sassed a high nobleman.

"Indeed. How was her behaviour around these men?"

"Well, I offered to escort her to you and even put in a good word for Daveth and his friends because she seemed pretty friendly with them… But the big bastard in the heavy plate said the only reward you was going to get was a rope around your neck and then he smashed me in the face with his shield…"

Nate scowled. Alistair had survived, the bastard! Mara was obviously being friendly with him – and only Maker knew what else – because he was a rabid beast. Threatening him and Loghain because they'd done what was necessary…

"You did well. Now get into ranks with the other men and a physician will see you soon enough."

"I'm… I'm not a soldier-"

"Get in ranks or be hung as a thief. What would you prefer?" Nate asked implacably.

The thug wilted and slunk into the mass of troops just as Cauthrien returned with Loghain and Rennio. "So Alistair and two Wardens survived," the Teyrn of Gwaren observed with a sigh.

"You know the Bastard Prince hates your daughter with a passion," Nate told the general. He didn't much like Anora himself but for the moment she was a useful tool. "And if word gets out he survived…"

"I would volunteer to deal with this upstart and retrieve my errant foster daughter, Arl Howe, but Duncan's pet pickpocket and that knight would sense my presence," Rennio said quietly. "However, I have a Journeyman who is quite adept at infiltration and… retrieval of lost people, as it were."

"Can you spare him?" Loghain asked of the Antivan Warden before Nate could speak. He wanted to take the army and find Mara before anything else… "We need to get to Denerim quickly and start hiring mercenaries to replace what was lost at Ostagar."

"I believe he can be spared, yes," was the immediate reply. "Once we reach the next major town I will dispatch a messenger to him."

"Good. I want Mara and Alistair secured. One is likely to become Teyrna of Highever and the other… well, it's too dangerous for a Theirin to roam around the countryside unescorted."

Nate wanted Alistair _dead_ but he didn't dare argue the point in front of Loghain, who was still loyal to the Theirin line despite abandoning Cailan, and Rennio, who was… well… still unreliable. "Spare Ser Jory," he added calmly, remembering the knight-Warden's willingness to defend Mara's honour. "He's obedient. Daveth, on the other hand, is the one who got your foster daughter in trouble with the Crown…"

Rennio went very still, eyes narrowing. "I had forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me." The Antivan smiled. "You are almost Antivan, the way you remember slights and wrongs. I like that about you."

Then he left without further ado, leaving the two highest-ranking noblemen in the Fereldan army looking at his back like they were servants. "If he were not necessary…" Loghain muttered. "Assassins. Scum, all of them."

Nate decided to file _that_ little gem away for later remembrance. After all, Loghain _was_ a traitor in the most technical sense… But since Nate hadn't yet sworn an oath of fealty to Cailan, he owed no allegiance to the Crown. And given how the Crown had treated Mara…

_I'll remember every wrong done to you, my love,_ he thought as he nodded curtly before turning to leave for his own tent. _And I'll avenge them. I promise._

…

The Imperial Highway, west of Lothering, 22nd Umbralis

Teagan was chewing on a thin strip of dried meat to try and ease the hunger cramps in his gut when the sound of hoof beats caught his attention. It had been a long hard walk from Ostagar across the Hinterlands, avoiding the village of Lothering and the Imperial Highway until they could be certain Howe and Loghain had turned north, and even scavenging from abandoned freeholds and villages had done little to fill the needs of the four hundred or so survivors he led. The three mages left to them - old Wynne, an elven lass named Surana and some twit named Anders – received food first as their abilities kept the wounded alive. Then came the stronger walking wounded and the healthy soldiers… The severely wounded and tainted had been given mercy, a decision which still haunted Teagan… Maker willing Redcliffe could feed and shelter them all.

The hoof beats stopped as Carver Hawke, even surlier since he'd been forbidden to go to Lothering to check on his family, challenged the rider. The lad had a lot of potential, smothered beneath the weight of resentment of a favoured older brother, and so Teagan had made him a knight for his courage in the Tower of Ishal. "Who goes there?" he growled.

"Ser Perth of Redcliffe," was the reply, delivered in a familiar voice. "I see some of you bear Redcliffe shields…"

"Stand down, Ser Hawke," Teagan commanded mildly, swallowing his strip of meat swiftly. He walked through the ranks of wounded, bloody, ragged soldiers to meet the red-haired knight with a relieved smile. "Ser Perth, I am glad to see you!"

"Not half as glad as I am to see you," the knight replied fervently. "Does Arl Eamon still live?"

"No. he commanded me to retreat with his last breath after Howe and Loghain's betrayal and Cailan's death," the Bann replied sadly. "How are Isolde and Connor?"

"Maker's breath, the rumour is true…" Perth looked sick. "How…?"

"They never charged when they were needed," Teagan said bitterly. "But you haven't answered my question about the Dowager Arlessa and Arl Connor."

Perth's expression was bleak. "The Arlessa Isolde was executed as a 'foreign spy' by a Hound of the King and Connor taken to Denerim for 'his protection'," the knight replied flatly.

"It is as I feared…" Teagan took a deep, shaky breath and turned to Carver. "Ser Hawke, get the men moving. It appears we must make further haste to Redcliffe." Then he looked to Perth. "Return to Redcliffe and tell them we've got a few hundred wounded soldiers that need food, shelter and medical care."

"Of course, Arl Teagan," the knight said as he wheeled his horse around and spurred it into a ground-eating canter for the half-day's ride back to Redcliffe.

"So… it begins," Carver said bitterly. "We fight amongst ourselves as the Blight creeps up to devour our land."

Teagan closed his eyes and nodded. "It seems so, Ser Hawke. It seems so."


	2. Chapter 1

Note: Thanks for the reviews!

…

**Chapter 1**

_An ounce of mother is worth a ton of priest._

Spanish Proverb

Highever, 24th Umbralis 9:30

Oriana was hiding something.

Catina huddled by the fire, grateful for its warmth, and rolled up skeins of thick woollen yarn for Teyrna Eleanor as she spun. Her fingers were capable of that much and even a guest was expected to contribute to a Fereldan household if they were staying beyond the customary week. The Cousland matriarch was a far more formidable woman than Rennio had ever given her credit for; the generation of women who fought in the rebellion against Orlais tended to be so. She could see where Mara got her reported determination from.

But Rennio's sister… She was everything an Antivan noblewoman should be: pretty, obedient and far too hospitable in the wrong kind of way. In another time, Catina might be amused by the woman's assumption she was ignorant of Fereldan herblore and therefore would drink a tea containing deathroot and blood lotus unknowingly. But Oriana had something to hide… Something to do with Oren.

The boy spoke to Catina with all the artless honesty of youth, asking ghoulish questions about her burns and how she got them. The Crow Grandmaster saw no reason to lie about her actions – or his uncle's – much to the Teyrna's resignation and Oriana's anger. One day, as she carded unspun wool by the fire, Oren had crept close and confided that he'd never much liked Rennio. For the child's sake, Catina promised never to tell the Grandmaster Emeritus of his feelings. And she would keep that vow for the child was wiser than his elders.

Oriana ushered the sleepy Oren to his bed; Catina watched them with sharp eyes and a sharper pang of longing. She had once dreamed of children and a husband but her own vengeful actions and the retaliation for them had destroyed those dreams. She tried to do her best by her apprentices and Journeymen Crows but knew that by the time they came to her, they were as damaged as she.

"Has she tried poisoning you again?" Eleanor asked pointedly once the woman had left the Great Hall.

"Not today," Catina replied with a wry smile.

The Teyrna sighed. "I'll admit that I'd rather have you here under my eye than out and about causing trouble unsupervised," she said with typical Fereldan bluntness. "But you _are_ a guest and therefore entitled to protection. Do you want me to say something to her?"

"No. It's mildly amusing in a way. Let her have her fun," Catina replied.

"But what if she kills you?"

"Then it is my time to die – and strangely poetic in a way, though you'd need to be Antivan to truly appreciate it." The Sorrowful One laid aside her ball of yarn and looked Eleanor in the eye. "I assume you have noticed she is concealing something from you concerning the boy."

Eleanor nodded reluctantly. "I have… but with Bryce sick and Fergus and Prince Alistair missing, we are on… tenterhooks at the moment."

"I believe your Prince is alive. Your Theirins… They are like our Valistis. In their own land they are able to survive almost anything."

"I hope you are right." The Teyrna sighed. "I… would ask something of you."

"As is the host's right to ask of the guest," Catina confirmed easily. They had reached an understanding, the Teyrna and the Grandmaster.

"If… something happens to Bryce and I… please get Oren to Fergus or Mara. I… am worried… if he should fall into the wrong hands…"

"You fear because Rennio marches with Loghain – and Anora is no friend to your house." Catina had never delighted in wordplay as Rennio did; she preferred honesty in these things. Let there be no illusions between parties in politics; it kept things honest.

"Rennio…? How did you know?" Eleanor's amazing emerald-green eyes took on a suspicious glint.

"Your brother-in-law is the Black Griffin, a Grey Warden whose only purpose _should_ be to keep order within the Order," she replied, unable to resist a bit of punning. "He is far too political for the current First Warden's tastes… and far too close to his end. I do not know for certain but I can easily see him abandoning his brethren at Ostagar for 'the greater good'."

"And Loghain has the strongest army," Eleanor added bitterly. "It makes a hideous amount of sense…"

"Rennio is a utilitarian. The needs of the many come before the needs of the few. He does not care who rules or how they do it so long as Thedas is at peace," Catina continued, staring into the flames. "But if the common people are miserable and suffering, what kind of peace is that?"

"Your opposition to him isn't entirely philosophical," Eleanor pointed out sharply.

"No, it isn't. I take pleasure in setting back his plans," Catina admitted easily. "But I try to make certain no innocents suffer when I play the Game."

"From where I sit, you are no better than he," Eleanor accused.

"That too is true." Catina smiled as the Teyrna gave her a stunned gaze. "I am too old for pretence, Teyrna. My only wishes are to correct some of the mistakes I have made and see Rennio dead before me. Then I can rest in peace."

Eleanor rose to her feet and stared into the flames. "I shouldn't have needled you. You're a guest… and I need you."

"I am not offended. I always appreciate honesty…" The Grandmaster sighed. "I am sorry I could not figure out what poison was used on Bryce and Howe."

"You did your best," Eleanor said. "Thank you for… not being angry."

"I need you as much as you need me," Catina pointed out as she struggled to her feet with the help of a cane. She looked forward to her eternal rest, even though she doubted the Maker would have her at His side.

There was a hint of ozone in the air, the smell of a storm upon the wind. For the first time in a long time Catina wished her Rivaini seeress mother was alive and here with her because she knew something was going to happen… But not what.

When the storm broke, only the Maker could help them.

…

Redcliffe, 25th Umbralis

Alistair had returned to Redcliffe.

The stench of rotten fish perpetually overlaid the prosperous Arling but now it carried undertones of unwashed humanity, spilt blood and infection. Ostagar's survivors and refugees from Lothering had been making their way here in the wake of Bann Teagan's retreat; it allowed them to mingle much more easily despite increasing the chance of discovery by agents of Howe's or even people looking for that bounty. But after the way Loghain and Nate had stripped the village bare whilst Alistair and the Wardens had rendered what aid they could… Leandra Hawke and her two remaining children had taken charge of the refugees after Elder Miriam died of dysentery on the march to Redcliffe. It appeared the older woman had once been a noblewoman in Kirkwall and something of a surrogate mother for Mara during her confinement in the Chantry.

It went without saying that everyone knew Bethany was an apostate; but since Morrigan was also one and he'd accepted her help, Alistair wasn't saying a damned thing. He was too busy trying to apply what he'd learned about coordination from Sergeant Kylon to sorting out the refugees into a coherent group. At the moment he wasn't having much luck because Garrett Hawke was questioning everything he said…

"You need to make an example of him," Zevran advised him the evening before they came to Redcliffe.

"I'm not going to smack him just for being a dick," Alistair replied firmly.

"You are King-"

"Actually, Alistair is only recognised as heir. To become King, he must be recognised and voted as such by the Landsmeet," Mara told the elf. "Anora, Loghain and Nate will have a strong case – especially if they can play the fear of 'foreign' influence. None of them have connections to Antiva and Orlais as we do – which could increase their chances at the Landsmeet."

"And they will control many votes if what Ser Donal told us is true," Alistair agreed grimly. Anora, never a favourite of his, was now officially lower than a snake's arsehole by taking custody of the underage heirs of those lost at Ostagar… He also had mixed feelings about the death of Arlessa Isolde: he'd never liked the woman but no one deserved to be executed the way she had and then the corpse displayed just for the 'crime' of being Orlesian…

But he didn't need Garrett Hawke undermining his authority. He just needed a way to figure out how to handle him without antagonising the Hawke family or the refugees.

"You're brooding again," Mara said softly; the rogue had walked up behind him with the quiet grace that was becoming so much a part of her.

"I was thinking," he said defensively.

"Thinking to plan is one thing but you were thinking to remember old sorrows," she chided in that soft drawling lilt, so unique to her. "I know. I have done it."

"I was thinking about how to handle Garrett," Alistair admitted, running a hand through his short dark hair. It seemed wrong to see Mara dressed in a dead woman's Chantry robe with her hair twined in severe braided buns instead of the loose knot she preferred; he was just grateful the bangs she possessed and the current darkness of her tresses made her look totally different to Anora.

"He is criticising you again," Mara observed, frowning subtly.

"Yeah…" The Prince sighed, rubbing his broken nose. "How would you handle him?"

"I don't know. But my father would put him in charge of fixing the problems he perceives in your plans." The Runaway Wife smiled sadly. "It either proved he was an idiot or got the problems fixed."

It was such a perfect solution to the problem that Alistair grabbed her and kissed her then and there. She tasted of the thin gruel that was all to be had at the moment as her lips opened automatically but he didn't care. It was a few moments before he realised what he'd done – acted just like Nate Howe – and he let her go, stepping away with a horrified expression on his face. "Mara, I'm so sorry-"

"Don't be," she replied, rubbing her rose-pink lips slowly. "It was… good. You were kissing me because you were happy, not because you were…"

"Marking you as my property," he finished, noting the turmoil in her pale blue eyes. "I want you to be mine… but I know you belong to yourself."

"Alistairio… You are a good man," she whispered. "I am sorry I hold back more than you deserve."

He smiled sadly, caressing an errant lock of flat brown hair away from her face. "You're worried about your kids and what Nate might do. It's okay… take as long as you need."

"You deserve a better woman than me," she said softly.

"And you deserve a better man than me. But all we've got is each other – and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Behind them Garrett Hawke started making gagging noises as his sister Bethany sighed dreamily. "I see the new second-in-command has arrived," Alistair told the rogue as he turned around to face the wiry, dark-bearded man. Watching those blue eyes bulge in shock was quite satisfying as he added loudly, "You see the problems, Hawke, you fix them and give me a report."

Bethany and Mara started grinning as the coterie of complainers who'd built up around the smartarse immediately turned on him and began to babble about their problems at the top of their voices. Despite the grief of the past few weeks, Alistair allowed himself a grin as he realised that he and Mara were truly an awesome team – one he didn't intend to see broken.

…

Teagan was in the middle of trying to allocate space in the already overcrowded Chantry when Tomas, one of the many reddish-haired descendants of bastard Guerrins who populated Redcliffe, entered the sturdy building with the news that another sixty refugees from Lothering had arrived. Given that Redcliffe was trying to shelter and feed four hundred people and struggling greatly, having more needy folk come was the _last_ thing he needed. But still, the laws of hospitality – and the need for more able bodies – meant that he had to go greet them.

…It appeared that the Maker had finally answered some of his prayers. Because the group assigned to the Tower of Ishal – Alistair, Mara, Zevran, Daveth and Jory – had survived and even brought a new ally or three in the form of Carver Hawke's family and a Chasind witch. His mother Leandra was overjoyed to see her son in the heavy veridium plate of a Knight of Redcliffe and it did Ser Hawke some good to see Garrett looking pissed off for once. Bethany was a rather pretty girl who Wynne immediately sought out as a fellow mage, much to the apostate's shock…

Much later, over a meal of thin gruel and dried fish, Alistair and Mara told him of what had gone on and the rumours they'd heard – which Teagan had been able to confirm. Some of his people were still loyal to him, sending reports from Highever and Denerim and even Amaranthine… Getting support for Alistair would be difficult since Anora held the heirs of roughly ten or twelve bannorn and two arlings. Rumour had it that she was already turning her eye to Oren Cousland in Highever despite the fact he had a mother and a grandmother who were perfectly able to protect him.

"With Eamon dead and me unconfirmed as Arl of Redcliffe," Teagan began, face twisting in sorrow at the memory of his brother's death and the knowledge his nephew was in the hands of a traitor's daughter, "We are going to need your father, Mara. He's respected in the Landsmeet and is a mighty warleader in his own right."

"I intended to go – if the Prince will allow – to Highever from here," the Runaway Wife immediately confirmed. "If nothing else, I wish to see Oriana and Oren on a ship for Antiva."

"Two more potential hostages out of the way? Good idea," Teagan approved. "I shall remain here and coordinate-"

"The Hawkes are quite capable of handling the refugees," Alistair interrupted. "Leandra is an Amell of Kirkwall and Garrett, when he's not running off his mouth, is a competent second. I need you with me, Teagan, and not just for your skills as Houndmaster and courtier."

"You, as brother to the Arl of Redcliffe and adult heir to the arling, will be a target if you don't bend knee to Anora and Loghain," Mara added. "It is better you are a moving target with us instead of one which is stationary."

"Bring Ser Carver and Bethany with us?" Alistair asked the blue-eyed woman.

"Carver yes, Bethany no. I would sooner bring Senior Enchanter Wynne – and she told me quite firmly she's coming along," Mara replied.

"Morrigan and a Circle mage in the same group… Sweet Bride of the Maker," Alistair breathed, shaking his head in bemusement. "So we're going to have Teagan, Morrigan, Daveth, Jory, me, you, Carver, Zev and Wynne?"

_"Si,"_ she confirmed.

"Doing… what?" Teagan asked bemusedly.

"Gathering the treaties owed to the Grey Wardens and working out alliances to deal with Anora and Loghain quickly," Alistair promptly answered. "The Blight's the most important thing, Teagan, but we can't handle it until Loghain and Nate Howe are dealt with."

Teagan took a deep breath to broach a potentially dangerous subject. "Lady Howe… Nathanial would welcome you with open arms. Do you think there's any way to convince him to join our side if you went to him?"

Mara took a deep, troubled breath. "I… don't know. He is looking for me it is true. But I don't know if he would support Alistairio."

"She's not going," Alistair said firmly. "Nate Howe's an archdemon short of a Blight, Teagan. What makes you think he won't just lock her up in his rooms and throw away the key?"

The Bann of Rainesferre bowed his head. "He has always been… _focused_… on Mara since the wedding night," he said softly.

"Exactly. She doesn't leave my side unless it's on a ship to Antiva with her babies," the Prince commanded flatly.

"Yes… Your Highness. I just felt I had to bring up the option." Teagan wasn't quite sure how to handle this forceful decisive Alistair when he still remembered the easygoing, obedient lad.

"It is your duty as Houndmaster to bring up unpleasant choices," Mara said softly. "If I thought Nate would listen… I would go. But it has been commanded otherwise by the rightful King and I will remain as the Couslands forever have: _Always True._"

In later years Teagan would like to claim he'd had an inkling of the force of nature these two would become but instead he felt a mild concern and relief he was going with them to keep the duo out of trouble. So he simply bowed his head and murmured the Redcliffe motto in tones of submission: _"Forever Dutiful."_

…

Daveth grinned as Morrigan exploded in a fit of fury and words, describing the utter stupidity of allowing a 'tame Circle mage' along on their travels in no uncertain terms. Her scrap of a crimson shirt flailed about as she gesticulated wildly, showing the breastband beneath which concealed her lovely tits about as well as a Warden could hide from the darkspawn. The witch was a real woman, not like slim and boyish Mara or that old bat Wynne – who he knew was going to lecture his arse up and down Ferelden. But Alistair had that scary 'I'm in charge' look so Daveth and Jory naturally acquiesced to his demand that Wynne, some knight named Carver and that up-hisself Teagan come along.

Mara, bless her heart, had found a skin of Chasind sack-mead for him and Morrigan to ease the sting of not being consulted in the matter. Jory, of course, had been delighted to have another knight along… even if he was sourpuss Carver Hawke. Pity it wasn't his sister Bethany – that girl had another nice set of tits.

Somewhat frustratingly, Alistair insisted that he in charge for Warden shit when he didn't know diddly-squat. Daveth really couldn't even read so he had to rely on Ser Jory to handle that shit… which was fucking awkward. Morrigan offered to read to him but quickly changed her mind when he asked her to read a book of salacious Antivan poetry Zev had found somewhere… And any satisfaction derived from watching Jory go red as a rose was lost when his voice destroyed the erotic fantasy Daveth was having involving Morrigan, a bed of furs and a few little things…

Daveth really needed to learn how to read. About as much as Mara and Alistair needed to fuck.

Fluffy, his newly acquired mabari, sighed as Barkspawn and Cu snuggled up in the corner of the Great Hall. He was lonely, Barkspawn was a comely creature (for a mutt) and Cu didn't believe in sharing. It sucked…

They would leave in three days for Highever. It would be a long, dangerous walk. But at least he'd have something good to look at it on the way…

At heart a simple creature, Daveth decided to roll over and go to sleep while he could. He had a lot of shit on his plate and little time to get it done.


	3. Chapter 2

Note: Thanks for the reviews. I suck at putting elvish together; I've relied on the Dragon Age wiki article, Katiebour's elven lexicon at AO3, and my own instincts. Hence _seth'lin'len_ means 'thin-blood child' – a half-elf – and _Ellath'len _means 'Our Beloved Child'. Rough translation (which probably sucks anyway) of Valendrian's words to Shianni are "We need our beloved child. Our beloved child needs us." There will still be mystical elements to this version of Game of Princes, but I intend to make them much more subtle. I hope.

…

**Chapter 2**

_No language can express the power, and beauty, and heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It shrinks not where man cowers, and grows stronger where man faints, and over wastes of worldly fortunes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity like a star._

Edwin Hubbell Chapin

Denerim, 28th Umbralis 9:30

Nate rolled his shoulders and neck, hearing drakeskin creak softly and bone crack loudly as Loghain strode to the edge of the dais, a commanding, heroic presence in his legendary silverite chevalier's armour, and harangued the cowed gathering of nobles beneath with harsh words and grandiose gestures. Anora stood by his side, a silent statue in lavender and baby-blue damask, as the Teyrn declared himself Regent for the widowed Queen. The Arl of Amaranthine had to conceal his smirk at the thought of Anora needing a Regent or Loghain actually ruling; the man was an extraordinary tactician but was otherwise a one-trick pony.

Rennio d'Antiva practically radiated cool amusement at the Hero of River Dane's pretensions; the Antivan Warden had lost some of the queer rage which had lurked within his hematite-grey eyes during his time as Duncan's subordinate, regaining the clarity of mind and coldness of temper which defined his legend. Nate didn't trust him as far as he could throw Fort Drakon… but he trusted the man's desire to find Mara.

She'd vanished after Lothering, no doubt hidden within the mass exodus of refugees from the doomed village. Now appointed Houndmaster, Nate was trying to locate her using the Hounds of the Queen, some of whom went rogue on news of the massacre at Ostagar. If Teagan had survived, the Bann of Rainesferre was going to learn a fatal lesson in the arts of the murder game – even if Nate had to murder him himself.

Loghain finished his speech, much to the desperate applause of whatever lackeys lingered in Denerim while better men had died in Ostagar. Arls Bryland and Wulff had survived, thank the Maker, and delivered their submissions to Loghain's authority via letter; even if it was a false one, they were both too weak to challenge the might of the mercenary army the Teyrn was hiring to replace what was lost in the south.

"My Lord!" A man's harsh voice cut through the applause, catching Loghain's attention just as he was turning away; the Hero of River Dane looked back down as a plain-faced, middle-aged man in dragonbone massive plate clanked through the crowd, wearing the Arl of Denerim's crest on his tabard. "If I might speak?"

"Of course…?" Loghain didn't know the man but Nate did: Captain Kylon, once known as Sergeant, and the man Alistair had appointed as his regent whilst he was in the south.

"Kylon of Denerim. My Lord, what of the Arl of Denerim, King Cailan's brother and the rightful heir to the throne? Can you confirm he is dead?"

"There is no way he could have survived Ostagar," Loghain replied firmly. "The Tower of Ishal was the first to fall to the darkspawn."

Kylon made a sceptical sound. "Is that so? Then perhaps you can explain this letter, sent from Lothering via pigeon, which details a very different version of Ostagar… in the Prince's own hand as witnessed by Bann Mara of Whitebridge, Ser Jory of the Grey Wardens and the Revered Mother of Lothering."

Loghain's face went a dangerous scarlet as Nate inwardly applauded the Bastard Prince's cunning. Mara, for all of her dubious reputation, was still a noblewoman from the second-most powerful family in Ferelden; Ser Jory of Redcliffe was known on the tournament circuit as a man of great honour; and the Revered Mother was a cleric. He'd chosen excellent witnesses, even if at least two of the three were strong-armed (Ser Jory was said to be obedient, so he would have just done what Alistair told him to).

"He writes that the beacon was lit but that you and Arl Howe retreated, leaving everyone to perish at the hands of the darkspawn. It was literally by grace of the Maker that he and the others of his squad in the Tower survived," Kylon continued implacably. "Please explain this, Teyrn Loghain."

"Cailan and Duncan's Wardens were lost to us and had we sent in our forces after them, there would have been nothing left of the army – even if we'd won. Had we known those in the Tower of Ishal were alive, we would have taken them with us," Loghain replied harshly. "The beacon was delayed in the lighting…"

"Perhaps the Arl of Denerim saw an easy way to gain the crown," Nate suggested reasonably. "If the beacon was delayed and Cailan should perish… We have only _his_ word to suggest the Tower was full of darkspawn."

Kylon glared up at the archer. "You are calling a lady, a knight and a Revered Mother liars, Your Lordship?"

"Mara's experiences at the hands of my brother have left her scared and desperate; Ser Jory is an excellent man but fundamentally an obedient one; and no doubt the Revered Mother felt compelled to agree with a man who picked up another by the throat and nearly choked him to death," Nate countered as Loghain threw him a grateful look and Rennio a thoughtful one. "Your loyalty does you credit, Captain Kylon, but Alistair is known to be a petty, vindictive man. Look at what he did to the thief who stole from him!"

"And you, Arl Howe, are known to be a liar and a murderer," Kylon retorted softly but clearly, plain face twisted with contempt. "Until the Landsmeet finds Alistair unworthy of the Crown, he is the Heir to the Mabari Throne. Until he is proven as a traitor, he is the rightful king of Ferelden. And until either of those things happen, I will support him with my dying breath."

"I'll gut him," Loghain growled, hand reaching for his sword, but Nate caught his arm.

"Don't. You kill or imprison him, you prove him right," the Arl hissed in the Teyrn's ear. "You'll make him a martyr for Alistair's cause."

"Dammit, you're right," the Hero of River Dane muttered, visibly calming down. "Thank you, Nathanial."

"Don't mention it. You and I know that little half-elven bastard's a puppet of the Antivan Crows, if not Orlais; unfortunately, we don't have hard evidence and he's got the mother of my children effectively hostage."

"And what if Mara's supporting him willingly?" Anora asked softly, speaking for the first time. "He's young and inexperienced in the ways of women, whatever else he's done; easy prey for a woman like Mara."

"Anora… That girl's so traumatised she's doing what many another woman raped by the Orlesians did during the Occupation: attaching herself to a protector to keep herself alive," Loghain chided the Queen. "She'd agreed to keep away from Alistair at Ostagar… but the bastard prince kept on harassing her and even got Cailan on his side."

"And don't mourn too badly for your husband," Nate advised quietly as the crowd began to wonder why they hadn't addressed Kylon's accusations. "He was preparing to divorce you and marry the Empress of Orlais with Arl Eamon's help…"

Anora went white as milk. "That…" she hissed before regaining her composure.

"Better address that Captain down there before people start to think he's right," Rennio advised calmly.

Nate nearly swore as he realised the Antivan had overheard their little argument; he'd actually forgotten the assassin's presence. He would have to be more aware in the future.

It was a pity that there weren't any loyal Fereldan Wardens at hand; it was a major reason why Nate was keen on finding Ser Jory. If Ser Jory were to hand, Rennio could be safely murdered…

Loghain nodded tightly and looked towards the defiant Kylon. "I understand that you are loyal to your liege lord but understand we are in the processes of gathering evidence involving Alistair's treason," the general said flatly. "And have a care what you call Arl Howe: his actions were in service to Ferelden as a Hound of the King."

"Of course, My Lord," Kylon replied. "If I come across any evidence of treason, I'll be sure to forward it to the relevant authorities."

"Excellent," Loghain said, sounding satisfied. He then nodded regally and turned away without another word.

Nate stared long enough at Kylon to let the Captain know he was marked as a dead man before following Loghain from the dais with Anora following behind. They needed to raise funds – and quickly – to hire more mercenaries. With his contacts in the Free Marches, it would be up to Nate to find competent forces to fight the darkspawn and any rebellion Alistair might raise.

He would need to find Mara and quickly. The longer she stayed with that bastard, the harder it would be for him to protect her.

_I'd better get the Arlessa's chambers in my Denerim estate redecorated and fitted out for the babies,_ he thought absently. _It'll be good to have a family… and this time, I'll make sure it's done _right_._

…

"You heard the Regent, Corporals."

"Sure we did, but it doesn't change the fact it's bullshit," Yarin muttered into her drink. The elf-blooded Guard wanted Nate Howe's balls on a platter for insulting 'her' Alistair and Kylon was only too happy to agree with her. But they had to play it smart.

The Captain knew he was likely a dead man walking for what he'd said in the Landsmeet Chamber… but he couldn't say nothing on the matter. Alistair, their stubborn, fierce, righteous Chantry Boy, was the rightful King of Ferelden. And Kylon would do everything in his power to make it so.

He sighed as he looked over the crowd gathered at the Hangman's Noose, the pub reserved for the Night Watch – Kylon's most loyal people. Alistair had joined their ranks and risen through them through sheer ability; the Nighters considered him one of their own and wouldn't betray him.

"There'll be trouble in the Alienage over this," Yarin warned quietly. "Alistair is _ours._ We won't see him betrayed by those bastard shems."

"Tell your kin to keep themselves quiet," Kylon warned. "I don't want to have to put down another riot, Yarin."

"It's not that simple, Captain." But Yarin wouldn't say any more as she rose to her feet, tossed a few coppers on the table and left after saluting Kylon and the silent Olin.

"Ancestors help us," Olin muttered. "We are going to be in for a load of trouble in the next few months."

For once, Kylon didn't bother telling the dwarven Corporal he was a pessimist… because for once, Olin was being entirely accurate. It wasn't going to be pretty in Denerim over the next few months, but Maker willing those bastards would get their just desserts…

…

There were ways into the Alienage that not even the Guard knew… nor ever would. One them involved climbing a dead vine concealed in the corner of the Arl of Denerim's estate, a route that Yarin, the daughter of an elven woman raped by her shem overlord, would never tell Kylon or anyone else not of elvhen blood.

Alistair knew of it. But then he was, like Yarin, like Seth 'Slim' Cauldry, _seth'lin'len_ – a half-elf. He was also more than that to the elves of Denerim: he was the fulfilment of a promise made to the people more years ago than even Valendrian possessed.

"So… the shems declared _Ellath'len_ a traitor," Yarin told Valendrian and the bitter-eyed Shianni as they met beneath the Vhenadahl. "Kylon called them out on it and probably signed his death warrant in doing so. He's asked us not to riot."

"The Captain would put down any turmoil… Regretfully, but he is dedicated to law and order over justice," Valendrian agreed bitterly.

"We're just going to let that-" Shianni begun, only to be silenced by Valendrian's chop of the hand.

_"Vir suledin,"_ he murmured. _"Vir isala Ellath'len. Ellath'len isala vir."_

"Only so much can be endured," Yarin warned softly. Valendrian had taught her what it meant to be half-elven when Urien Kendalls had thrown her mother onto the street.

Valendrian's smile was sad. "I know. But there is a long road ahead of us before _Vhen'alas_ rises." He looked up at the Vhenadahl. "One day, I promise. One day."

"One day better be soon," Shianni muttered. "Or by the Maker there'll be hell to pay."

…

Redcliffe, 29th of Umbralis

They would depart Redcliffe tomorrow.

Morrigan sat within a circle of quartz pebbles and crude clay lamps that smelt of fish oil mingled with the pungent herbs she'd sprinkled over their flames. She inhaled, holding the lungful of smoke within until her chest began to burn with the need for exhalation, and felt her consciousness detach itself from her body and enter the Fade.

Dreamwalking was a dangerous art, one even Flemeth practiced with caution, but it was also an excellent way to catch glimpses of the future. And with the dangerous path her mother had set her upon, Morrigan needed every hint she could get.

Time was meaningless in the Fade… but within the Veil, the barrier between this world and that of dreams, it flowed strangely. Morrigan's consciousness skipped along the Veil like a stone tossed across the surface of a lake, skimming the water until she either sank into the real world or fell into the Fade. When her mind touched the Veil, she caught glimpses of what was and what would be…

_The maiden and the crone stood in a hall… The hunter stood on a tower… The promised child gathered the banners… The knight held the sun in his hands… The crow held a crown in his hands… The black griffin held a pair of dramatic masks in his hands… The archer looked into a mirror… The sorrowful one tucked a child into the grave… The son of the land stood on the crossroads between redemption and damnation… Two fair-haired queens played a game of chess while a pair of hounds watched them…_

It was too much and too little; Morrigan's eyes snapped open as Daveth knocked on the door to the chamber Bann Teagan had allowed the witch to use for tonight at her request. "Powers old and dark take you!" she cursed the thief. "I was almost lost in the Fade!"

Daveth smiled insolently; he was a most frustrating male, uncircumspect in his pursuit of her company yet worldly in ways Morrigan couldn't comprehend. "Couldn't wait ta get back ta me?" he asked.

"Have a care for your choice of words lest I make my discontent known by my hand upon your cheek," she warned, trying to conceal her flustered emotions within disdain. Daveth's knowing dark eyes made her feel… unsure. But powers old and dark would rise again before she informed him of the fact.

"Just thought ya'd want some mead before we leave tomorrow," he said, offering the skin of sack-mead, a gift from Mara offered as recompense for tolerating the presence of Wynne on this journey of theirs.

Morrigan accepted the skin and drank from it, wondering for the umpteenth time if she should slip certain herbs into a meal shared by Mara and Alistair to bring them to intimacy. She'd broached the idea with Bann Teagan, a most practical man who seemed to understand common sense more than most… But he said that these things couldn't be forced but instead had to take their time.

'Twas frustrating to watch those two dance around each other, Mara wanting the Prince but too scared to approach and he desiring her but frightened of scaring her off. They were a formidable team – for an almost-templar, the half-elf was tolerable company – and she could almost touch the tangible destiny which linked them. But she couldn't force them, more's the pity.

"Thank you," she remembered to say to Daveth. 'Twas hard learning the little social interactions that even cold-eyed Mara understood. Learning please and thank you instead of taking…

They had a long journey before them tomorrow. Yet Morrigan was undesirous of sleep. So instead she returned the skin to Daveth, transformed into a hawk and flew out the window into the bitterly cold night. She needed to try and piece together the meaning of her vision… and to understand the strange feelings creeping into her heart.


	4. Chapter 3

Note: Thanks for the reviews! I'll be playing up some of the 'family features' that were associated with noble houses, much like the Hapsburg chin in real life or the Lannisters' golden hair and fair skin in _A Song of Ice and Fire._ Theirins appear to be fair-haired and have those straight, slightly oversized noses, the Guerrins blue-eyed and auburn-haired, the Couslands have bright/intense blue eyes, and Bann Alfstanna's family appear to have green eyes similar in shape to Eleanor Cousland's (in my interpretation). Most of the group are about level 7-9 by now: Teagan and Jory are Champions, Carver is a berserker, Mara a Bard and Daveth a Ranger. Everyone else has their canon specialties.

…

**Chapter 3**

The Road to Highever, 1st Cassus 9:30

It had begun to snow.

The borderstone of Highever, ancient before the region had become a teynir, loomed behind them in the dim grey twilight. Mara was home, whatever that was supposed to mean these days when her children were in Denerim and she hadn't been in this place for more than a month from the ages of seven to sixteen… She shuddered in the thick wool cloak lined with fox fur, appropriated from the late Arlessa Isolde's wardrobe, as she realised that she had no idea what they were going to do here… or what awaited them. For all she knew, her father was dead and their cause lost.

Alistair's command that she not go cold on him was a trying one but as a Cousland she could do no other than obey. _Always True_ was the motto and so she would remain.

She touched the borderstone with hands encased in supple black leather, leaning against them as she took a great shuddering breath. Sometimes she wondered if it were better she just lay down and died as atonement for all the trouble she'd caused and no doubt would cause in the future… Death in the snow was meant to be relatively painless, right?

Then she felt Alistair's muscular bulk coming up behind her, blocking the cutting wind like he was a portable wall. It was hard to believe he was half-elven when his build was so tall and doughty; a man built like the Alamarri of old, like Fergus and her father Bryce, like Calenhad of legend… Mara looked more (and had been mistaken as) half-elven with her small, delicate frame – legacy, like the subtle sloe shape of her eyes, of the Banns of the Waking Sea. She wondered if her third cousin Alfstanna had survived Ostagar…

"Jory tells me we're about an hour's walk from a village with an inn," he murmured as he gently removed her hands from the cold granite of the borderstone and enfolded them within his larger ones. "Can you make it or do you want me to carry you?"

Somehow she had a feeling that he'd pick her up and carry her anyways, just because he could. Somehow despite him getting into her personal space nearly as much as Nate Howe, the Bastard Prince didn't make her feel so threatened. Alistair was gentle but relentless in taking care of her, as she was the weakest member of their group… which was humiliating.

"I… can walk," she breathed. "I am… sorry."

"You've nothing to worry about," Alistair assured her – only to be contradicted by Ser Carver's negative grunt.

"Bann Mara shouldn't have been at Ostagar and she certainly shouldn't be on the road with us," the knight, once her man-at-arms, said bluntly. "She'd barely completed her lying-in once the call to arms was issued; she's still exhausted from bearing the twins."

"It's safer for her to be on the road with us than somewhere Nate Howe can get his hands on her," Alistair countered, golden eyes narrowed. "That's also your liege lady you're talking about."

"I _am_ the weakest physically of the group," Mara pointed out with the shadow of a wry smile. She stepped from Alistair's embrace and the comforting bulk of the borderstone. "I am sorry, Ser Hawke, for not pulling my own weight."

"I would suggest remaining in Highever if you are having trouble physically," Ser Jory suggested diplomatically. "In fact, if we can awaken Teyrn Cousland, wintering in Highever might just be the best option because the snow will slow the darkspawn down – and we will need to decide where to go next after this."

"This is a discussion we can have walking," Carver said decisively as he began to walk again. Mara sighed and followed, grateful for Alistair supporting her but ashamed of the fact she couldn't handle the winter travel.

There was only so much even Wynne could do to heal Mara's post-birth health issues. She'd barely had the customary lying-in and went straight from that into intense physical activity in preparation for combat. Perhaps she should have remained at Lothering… but if she had, Nate would have collected her on the way to Denerim. Maybe she would have even believed Loghain's lies…

It took almost two hours to reach the village and by then the snow was falling thick and fast. Mara felt like she was in an endless tunnel – perhaps trapped in the Black City for her sins – and would be walking forever along the darkening road with little visibility before or behind her. Only Alistair, warm, golden, royal Alistair, by her side kept her even remotely sane when the rest of her companions were little more than dark figures in the twilit gloom.

Night had fallen by the time they entered the village, a long streak of thatched cottages and fieldstone buildings on either side of the rutted road. Ser Jory, who'd been here before, unerringly picked out the local inn – complete with tankard sign for the illiterate – and led them there. Maker willing there'd be some kind of room available…

Mara had kept to the Chantry robes for travel as sisters were rarely bothered; but when she got to Highever, she intended to collect a particular set of armour that would have given her mother a heart attack had she known of its existence. That was assuming she wasn't too exhausted to continue with her travels, of course…

It would be good to stay home by the fire and let the others risk themselves but Mara knew she couldn't. There was so much to teach Alistair and the others about politics… Even though Teagan was Houndmaster and Daveth a thief, neither man had the specific skills of an assassin and a bard which would be needed. She also had the encyclopaedic knowledge of Ferelden and its nobility that Alistair would need in coming days.

The inn was little more than four large rooms, a shed serving as a stable, and the innkeeper's family. Not wishing to reveal the fact they had two hundred sovereigns to hand, Carver and Jory negotiated hard for bedrolls in the empty common room for the group since trade was thin at this time of year. The innkeeper, a shrewd dark-skinned woman with a Rivaini lilt (strange to find in this remote village), accepted two silvers for the lot of them if they didn't mind eating pease pottage and black bread or heating their own water. It would have to do if they were to maintain their cover.

By unspoken consensus Mara, Morrigan and Wynne got the spots closest to the fire; when asked if she minded the Circle mage working a fire spell, the innkeeper shook her head with a smile and returned to the kitchen.

After she'd eaten a trencher of pease pottage, Mara found herself drifting off by the flames, deciding to worry about a fire in the morning and letting herself fall asleep. The last thing she heard before unconsciousness claimed her was Zevran speaking with the innkeeper…

…

The innkeeper, whose name was Nazeen, was happy to let the men drink as much of the cheapest ale available as they could for a silver. Daveth and Carver set to with good will, Teagan and Jory had several tankards, and even Wynne indulged as she revealed a hitherto-unsuspected knowledge (and appreciation) for alcohol.

Alistair stuck to chamomile tea because he needed to have a clear head for his next plan. Zevran, given the choice of the herbal tea or sour, resinous wine from Orlais, opted for the non-alcoholic drink – much to his displeasure.

This place might be two steps off the tiny apartment he'd shared with ten other apprentices during his youth, but at least it was clean and the floor was wood instead of dirt. Nazeen bint Ahmed knew her business well.

Only a true Crow in service to Catina Seforzina would recognise the bundle of dried Andraste's Grace flowers tied above the inn's door as the sign of one who had been aided by _La Dolorosa._

"You go to Highever with the Cousland girl," the innkeeper said bluntly in Rivaini as she readied the bread for tomorrow's baking and set more dried peas in the pot for cooking.

"Is her tattoo so obvious?" Zev admitted with a quiet chuckle.

"Not here on the southern edge of Highever where we get trade from Lothering, but she's the Waking Sea eyes with the Cousland colour, so that tattoo is pretty obvious when combined with those two things," Nazeen informed him. "You also have a Guerrin and a Theirin with you."

"Shit," he muttered as he realised that even hair dye couldn't help disguise obvious noble family features.

"Most people won't notice the subtle things – though you should tell Bann Teagan to shave and dye his hair," Nazeen advised.

"You did not know I was a Crow of Catina's yet you gave away food and shelter for nine people and three mabari at a song," Zev pointed out as he warmed himself by the kitchen fire. Wretched Fereldan winters!

"I would have given it away free for the Wardens in your ranks but you are obviously hiding yourselves for good reason," Nazeen replied softly.

"Why is that?"

"My sister's husband's third cousin's fifth wife's sister was Tayana, mother to the Warden-Commander Duncan," she promptly answered. "We in Rivain, much like those in Antiva, remember our debt to the Grey Wardens."

"Ah." Zevran dearly wanted to know Nazeen's story: she was pretty enough and had the manners of a woman of the world yet had wound up owning a village inn in a minor part of Ferelden. What had brought her here and how had Catina helped her?

"I would have given you meat and mead but that would have gone noticed," Nazeen continued calmly. "However, I have news you might consider better than meat and mead: Catina lives and she is a guest of Eleanor Cousland's."

Zev nearly choked at the idea of Rennio d'Antiva's arch-nemesis staying with the Prince of Crows' in-laws… but strange times made for strange alliances, it seemed. "That is good news, though my friends' response will be… interesting."

"I wish I could see it," Nazeen agreed with the flash of a grin. Zev wished she wasn't married to a big hulk of a Fereldan with a heart of gold; she looked like she'd be a good tumble.

It was a pity none of the men or women in their company was interested in sex with him. Zev was rather missing the intimacy…

"When this is over, I promise I will return with a bottle of Antivan brandy and share the story," he vowed. "It will no doubt be a grand one."

"I'll hold you to that and pray to the djinn for your success," she agreed with a smile before turning back to her work.

Satisfied, Zev returned to the common room and curled up on his bedroll. Things might just be looking up…

…

Carver Hawke watched his liege lady curl up on her bedroll and sighed. Mara had the heart of a lion but she really was too delicate to be making this trip. But what choice did she have?

Leandra Hawke had been specific in her instructions to join Mara's guard and why she wanted him to do so: despite twenty-two years of marriage to Malcolm, she thought of herself as an Amell and wanted to regain that status for the protection it would afford Bethany. Mara, disgraced and widowed, wasn't out of reach for an exiled noblewoman's son – Leandra liked the girl but she liked the Runaway Wife's connections a whole lot more. She'd wanted Garrett to join the guard instead of Carver but the Cousland girl had requested the second son instead because he was a warrior, not a rogue.

He'd been thinking he might have had a shot until Ostagar when he realised that Nathanial Howe and Alistair Theirin were subtly quarrelling over the girl like two mabari over a bone. Given the lady's preference for Alistair's company, Nate should have gotten the picture – but he was crazy. Carver knew crazy, having Garrett for a brother, and Howe was nuttier than Elder Miriam's fruitcake.

It was kind of shitty but unsurprising that Garrett had been appointed second-in-command and left to watch over everything at Redcliffe whilst Carver travelled around and did all of the dirty work tracking down old bits of paper and shit. He'd been so damned proud to be made a knight by Bann Teagan… but Garrett would probably become someone important when Alistair won (it never occurred for Carver to doubt that the Prince would win any conflict with Loghain or the darkspawn) while Carver would likely be dead or standing night watch for the rest of his life. Maker's breath, hadn't he been shit on enough for one life?

"Thinking about that shit of a brother of yours again?" Alistair asked as he cradled a cup of herbal tea, Mara sleeping – with a decidedly unmusical snort and whistle routine when compared to her powerful contralto voice – soundly behind him. The Bastard Prince had put an extra fur on the woman and Carver had the feeling they'd be stopping early tomorrow if she couldn't keep up again.

"How'd you guess?" Carver asked sarcastically as he downed his third cup of cheap ale. Compared to the dog-piss served at Dane's Refuge in Lothering, this shit was halfway decent.  
"Because _you_ have the same expression _I_ do when I think about him," Alistair drawled.

"So why'd ya make the little fuck yer second, anyways?" Daveth asked, having downed five cups to Carver's three and still sounding sober. The thief had a prodigious drinking capacity that the warrior was both in awe and envious of.

"It was Mara's idea. Since he enjoyed bitching about the problems so much, he could spend time fixing them," Alistair replied with a faint smirk. "If he gets it right, _I_ look good for appointing a competent person. If he screws up, it's _his_ fault, not mine."

"I never looked at it that way," Carver admitted with a grin. "But why didn't you bring him along instead of me?"

"_You_ were at Ostagar and survived the Tower of Ishal on your own." This time it was Teagan who answered. "We were going to bring your sister along except that Wynne insisted on coming and I wanted to leave a mage at Redcliffe in case things go wrong."

"Bethany's an excellent mage… but as an apostate, she would lack the basic protections a Circle mage has," Wynne confirmed sympathetically. "She doesn't even have Morrigan's ability to shapeshift and avoid detection."

"But before you ask, Garrett was never an option," Alistair told the warrior quietly. "I'd rather have a dumb steady fighter at my side than a brilliant but erratic shithead."

"You know, I'd be offended if you hadn't insulted my brother in the same breath," Carver said, pouring himself another cup of ale. "You're alright, Your Highness."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you like me," Alistair countered with a grin.

"Good, I have a reputation to maintain." Carver looked down at the slumbering Mara, noting that she'd lost weight over the past few weeks since Ostagar. Come to think of it, all of them were looking a bit thin; with hunting scarce because of winter and the Blight, all they'd been able to carry were a few days' worth of dried meat and peas plus a sack of oats.

"Look, I wasn't being a prick to suggest that Bann Mara shouldn't be with us," he began cautiously. "She's honestly looking like shit, Your Highness. And she can't keep up and we can't necessarily devote ourselves to protecting her."

"Nathanial Howe is hunting Mara and won't stop until she's in his hands," Alistair replied softly, golden eyes burning. "Could you, in all honesty, force her to deal with that…?"

"I been thinkin' that after we gone to Highever, Orzammar might be our next trip," Daveth suddenly suggested. "If Mara can't keep up, reckon the dwarves might take her in at our request, 'specially if we make it worth their while."

"A good idea, Daveth?" Jory observed, sounding astonished. "Will wonders never cease?"

"I do not know why you are so surprised; 'tis one more than you have ever had," Morrigan observed scornfully from her place by the fire. The apostate had agreed to don one of Isolde's black corsets after Mara pointed out that they were meant to show off the figure of a woman. Carver liked a girl with curves but the fact she was a mage was… well… it'd be kind of like fucking his sister. And Daveth would cut his throat in his sleep if the way the thief drooled over the witch was any indication.

Carver would like a good woman, but by the Maker, he'd sooner _not_ get entangled with one who was desired by another man. He liked breathing, thanks.

He decided he'd done enough thinking for the night and set about to drinking. If that snow kept up, they probably wouldn't get too far anyways, so he probably wouldn't need to worry about travelling with a hangover…


	5. Chapter 4

Note: Thanks for the reviews and follows. I am going to be drawing words from Saxon and Irish Gaelic for the barbarian languages of Ferelden. _A chuisle mo chroi_ means 'pulse of my heart' and it's an Irish Gaelic endearment. _Tá mé i ngrá leat_ is Irish Gaelic for 'I'm in love with you.'

…

**Chapter 4**

_It's not easy being a mother. If it were easy, fathers would do it._

The Golden Girls

Highever, 3rd Cassus 9:30

"Thank the Maker! Have you come here to help us?"

Like many inhabitants of the lands long held by noble families where sons were wont to spread their wild oats, the watchman of the southern gate to Highever had the distinctive brilliant blue eyes of a Cousland despite having a short, broad frame that spoke of a recent dwarven ancestor. He was also pathetically pleased to see Ser Jory and his companions, in particular Bann Mara, daughter of the lord of the teynir. Once she had passed the borderstone into her native lands, a subtle strength had filled the lady's limbs after the three-day, blizzard-enforced rest they had taken in the Rivaini woman's inn. Jory had noticed it many a time within his service to both Redcliffe and Highever and even during his childhood in the tiny bannorn of Rainesferre. On their home soil, the old blood of Ferelden became stronger and more resilient; it had been a reason why the Orlesians had sought so strongly to eliminate or subvert the high nobility.

"What is wrong?" Mara asked, that soft drawl sharpening, becoming more clipped than Zevran's long, lazy vowels and smooth consonants. Jory misliked having the assassin with them, especially upon his revelation that his Grandmaster awaited them in Castle Cousland, but neither Alistair nor his lady seemed too perturbed by the news.

"Evil things been coming out of Castle Cousland since yesterday," the watchman said flatly. "We've heard nothing – and since you know your mother's like clockwork with her daily audiences, especially since your father fell ill –"

_"Si,_ Aelfwine, I understand," Mara replied gently. The man subtly preened at the noblewoman remembering his name. "Who is in charge of the city?"

"Bann Alfstanna, my lady; she was passing through here on her way to Waking Sea from Ostagar and was caught here."

"The Maker has heard _one_ of my prayers. Please, send us to her." It was innate to true nobility, that soft request which demanded nothing yet asked everything; Alistair, when he took command, he was sharp and abrupt, a lawman to the core. Mara had a way of making gentle, reasonable requests that would make it seem churlish to refuse – unless she was truly annoyed, then her command of profanity (revealed during the trip to Lothering from Flemeth's hut when she nearly fell into some quicksand) rivalled that of a hardened soldier's and involved more languages than Ser Jory knew existed. Even Daveth, inveterate and unrepentant scoundrel that he was, had been in awe of Lady Howe's choice words.

"Of course, my lady," Aelfwine said as he waved over a skinny lad Jory recalled as a tanner's apprentice to lead them to Bann Alfstanna.

"A moment – do you know if Helena is well?" he asked the watchman.

"Hel- Oh, you're the knight who went off to become a Warden," Aelfwine replied. "I'm assuming by the fact you're still alive that you did."

"Aye," Jory confirmed. "But-?"

"She's fine. One of them evil things tried to force its way through the door into her bakery and she smashed its skull into bits with that frying pan of hers," the tanner's apprentice supplied helpfully.

"'Tis apparent your wife is more a man than you are," Morrigan observed snidely. Jory knew that she was a formidable mage, an apparent friend of the Lady Howe's and directly responsible for them finding the treaties, but his normal chivalry towards women was fast reaching its breaking point with her barbs. He hoped and prayed that Helena would put the witch in her place.

"Whatever my wife might be, I am certain of one thing, Lady Morrigan: she is more a woman than _you'll_ ever be," Jory countered, the jab unbecoming of a knight but unavoidable because of the cold and his worry about Helena.

Unfortunately, the witch didn't seem fazed by the insult but instead was amused. "Perhaps _there_ is some semblance of backbone in there, after all."

"Now is not the time for idle sparring," Arl Teagan said chidingly. "Please, lad, take us to Bann Alfstanna." In the manner of a true nobleman he backed up his request to the apprentice with a tossed silver coin.

They were led to the Chantry of Highever, once the ancient keep of the Banns before Castle Cousland was built, and found the weary-looking Alfstanna giving orders to the ragged remnants of both Waking Sea and Highever's forces. "Kinswoman, it is good to see some more of us survived Ostagar," Mara greeted with rare warmth in her lovely voice.

"Mara! Thank the Maker you're alive," the Bann of Waking Sea replied, giving the surprised girl a fierce hug. "And I see that… Maker's breath… Prince Alistair and Bann Teagan are alive too."

"No thanks to Loghain and Nathanial," Alistair said flatly.

"Indeed. If Redcliffe hadn't sounded the retreat, we'd all be dead." Alfstanna sighed as a couple stout townswomen struggled to carry a heavy pew to block up a side-door. "I came here to consult with Eleanor… and find myself trapped in a town besieged by the undead."

"Which are coming from Castle Cousland," Mara agreed, voice now cold with fear. "I am… _worried_… for my family. But I know where my duty lies."

"I think it's going to be pretty bad tonight," Alfstanna said with a sigh. "Your friends are handy in a fight?"

"We have two Grey Wardens, an assassin, a templar, two mages, two knights and myself," Mara confirmed. "Give me command of the archers – forgive me, kinswoman, but the birthing and Ostagar have left me unable to handle a sustained melee fight."

"You've nothing to be ashamed of, Mara Howe," Alfstanna told her, voice suddenly fierce. "You came where others stood back. And frankly… I'd like to leave His Highness and Bann Teagan in the Chantry."

"An' a Grey Warden," Daveth suddenly added. "No offence, milady, but we was told by a Witch of the Wilds that if all the Grey Wardens are dead, we might as well drink poison an' escape the archdemon risin' quicker'n a striplin' lad in a whorehouse."

"Since you've spoken, you're it," Alfstanna said curtly.

"I'm not staying inside," Alistair disagreed flatly. "I won't be-"

"Cailan ran headlong into battle and got himself killed," Alfstanna retorted, tone sharp. "If the rightful King, the Houndmaster and a Grey Warden survive this mess, there's hope left for Ferelden."

Jory noted the Prince's golden eyes hardened but he bowed his head in defeat. _"Fine._ But Mara stays too."

"No. All of us, we are expendable," the Bann of Whitebridge immediately replied. "You, Teagan and Daveth are not."

"Mara's got a point, much as I hate to admit it," Wynne said with a sigh. "You can't allow your personal feelings for her get in the way of doing what is necessary."

"What kind of man am I to let a woman worn down by treachery and childbirth fight in my stead?" Alistair demanded, eyes blazing golden with anger.

Much to Jory's surprise it was Carver who spoke. "You're a King. Sometimes you need someone to fight and die for you."

"I… damn you all," Alistair said bitterly. "Damn you and damn Loghain and especially damn Nathanial Howe."

"We will live," Mara promised before turning to Wynne. "I need you to stay in here as our healer. Morrigan is the superior battle-mage."

"Very well," Wynne acquiesced quietly. "We've three hours until sundown, so we better make best use of it."

The next two and a half hours revealed the depths of the extraordinary group fate or the Maker's will had thrown together to combat the Blight. It appeared that templar training included knowledge of close-quarter siegecraft as Alistair gave orders to the various people to set up fiery barricades at strategic locations throughout Highever – that or his training as a Denerim City Guard. Mara, who knew the city of Highever as only a Cousland could, told them where to place them and revealed caches of weaponry and even flammable reagants secreted around the town. It was Teagan, who as Houndmaster knew the notables of every town in Ferelden, who appointed commanders of squads located in each quarter; Wynne found every person with a hint of herbcraft and assigned them as medics to each squad. Morrigan suggested basic combinations of herbs which would harm (or at least discomfort) the undead; as a coastal town, Highever had ready access to salt, which everyone knew the undead couldn't tolerate well. Daveth, revealing his past as a poacher, gathered the hunters and set up basic claw traps wherever possible. Jory and Carver provided muscle while Zevran was assigned to act as a scout, using his natural stealth and agility to run messages between the squads.

There was one decision which outraged almost everyone: the arming of the Alienage elves at Alistair's command. "If you give them knives, the knife-ears will think they can bear arms!" yelled one burly carter.

"My mother was an elf. Are you implying something about my ancestry?" Alistair, whose temper was on a short leash because of his enforced stay within the Chantry, asked dangerously.

The carter found a good reason to shut up as the Alienage elder, a soft-spoken woman with steel-grey hair and wise dark eyes, stepped forward. "We will not fail you, _Ellath'len,_" she promised.

That had been something Jory noted during their travels: elves called Alistair by that name and appeared to hold him in some kind of reverent awe the knight would reserve for saints (or Helena). He supposed it had to do with the fact that the Prince saw no reason to be ashamed of his elvish heritage and was royal besides. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the lot of elves would improve dramatically once Alistair took the throne.

It was an hour before sundown that he finally got to see his Helena, the baker yelling at two girls standing in the way of a doorway, hands planted firmly on her ample hips. Morrigan might have lovelier features but her curves were those of a maiden; Helena, a babe who could only be his tied to her back, was soft, sweet curves and a merry freckled face and beautiful green eyes.

"I'll give yer missus this," Daveth observed from behind him, having finished setting traps. "She's got a big set of knockers."

Jory refrained from punching the thief blatantly ogling his wife by sheer dint of willpower and the recollection that they would all be facing monsters tonight. But it was hard and woe betide his fellow Grey Warden come the dawn and the danger past.

Helena caught sight of him once the girls had slunk off deeper into the Chantry and walked over sedately, mindful of the babe tied in a sling on her back. Once she was within touching distance, Jory wrapped his arms about her and they kissed, forgetting the world around them in the bliss of reunion. Daveth with his idle lusts would never understand the beauty of true love.

Here was the reason why he'd joined the Wardens, not the empty words of glory he'd mouthed before the Joining. No monster would claim his wife and child whilst he drew breath.

…

Alistair was pretty steamed but the logic of everyone else had overridden his need to feel like a man. Once the battle-plan was decided (as much as these things could be), he'd sought out Mara and watched her drill every female and lad who knew how to handle a bow; they would stand before the Chantry as the last line of defence against the invading undead.

It was here he saw not the vulnerable girl or the haunted childless mother but the leader of men she'd been raised to be. She accepted no excuses from herself or anyone else as she quietly but firmly pointed out that all things could be brought down with enough effort. Enansel, _hahren_ of Highever's Alienage, had appointed herself the girl's second because many of the elves were part of this last line. It also appeared that by Highever law, all adult inhabitants of the port city were to have at least basic archery skills and to maintain their own bows – even elves. Bryce Cousland apparently hated the idea of his people being unable to defend themselves or the town.

Once the archers were organised Mara took herself to an improvised mess tent for a handful of dried fruit and some smoked fish. Alistair immediately joined her, making the ultimate sacrifice by adding a slice of cheese to her meal. "I don't like this," he said grimly.

"I know," the Runaway Wife said softly in between quick bites of food. "I… don't like it either. But it must be done. You three cannot fall."

"Neither can you," Alistair told her firmly. "You're not as expendable as you think."

"I will be fine," she promised, dropping her gaze like she did when things got too… close… for her. Alistair must have let his worry for Mara show enough for even her to see it.

He wasn't exactly sure what it was that drove his need to be close to her, to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in that long fine hair, to kiss away the tears of her past life and make a new one with her. Perhaps it was the combination of fragility and strength, flaws and virtues, and that odd code of ethics she had despite years of training as a rogue-bard-assassin-person. Maybe it was like she was a damsel in distress who could actually kick arse when she was healthy and whole.

He was worried about her fighting when she was still recovering from Ostagar but she couldn't stay inside. He understood that morale relied on the resident Cousland fighting alongside the defenders of Highever… It just worried him sick.

The bell summoning the defenders to prepare themselves rang; Mara wolfed down the last bit of cheese and prepared to leave. Alistair caught her arm briefly and brushed her dark-dyed hair out of her eyes. "Live for me," he ordered fiercely.

Mara smiled, just a little. "Is that a royal command?" she asked archly.

"Would it make a difference if it was?" Alistair countered softly, wondering if she was actually _flirting._

"Of course. A Cousland can do nothing but obey the command of a Theirin." Mara tilted her head a little, smile curving her lips.

"Then it's a royal command," Alistair murmured, praying he wasn't misreading her signals as he leant down for a kiss.

It was swift, a duelling of tongues that left them both breathless before they separated. He managed to catch her bottom lip with his teeth and lick along the grooved scar on it far too quickly before she stepped away with a shaky breath.

"_A chuisle mo chroi,"_ Alistair murmured in Old Alamarri, a language still spoken somewhat in the north and around Redcliffe. And it was true: somehow Mara had inveigled herself into the very core of his being and had done so since he first saw her carrying a basket of laundry too heavy for her as Morna in Denerim. He could almost understand why Nate Howe was obsessed with her… but he'd lost all right to her when he lied to her on her wedding night.

_"Tá mé i ngrá leat,"_ she said in reply, quickly, shyly. Then she ran out before he could kiss her again for that one simple confession.

Despite the trouble they faced as the light outside the Chantry dimmed, he felt optimistic about the future. They would survive; love would prevail.

…

Some of the people inside the Chantry resorted to prayer or drink as the sounds of combat, screaming and dying people, and the unearthly growls of the undead reached through the thick oaken doors. Teagan, not a devout man and unable to seek oblivion while brave men and women fought and died for him, settled for engaging Alistair, Wynne and Daveth in a terse discussion about the defence of the Chantry should everyone fall outside. It was a horrible night and not a soul – unless they were drunk or drugged out of their minds – slept a wink. How could they when they knew that destruction was only a thick door and several people away?

Several times during that long candlelit wait they heard Jory's "For Redcliffe!" and Mara's _"Niente archi di alloro!"_ Alistair had almost smiled when he received the translation of "Nothing bows the laurel", a traditional Cousland war cry. On other occasions they heard Alfstanna's "The sea conquers all!" and the Highever "Steel and blood!"

The worst part was the silence which preceded the grey light of pre-dawn. Nothing could be heard yet none dared to open the doors lest the monsters had won. Alistair, Teagan and Daveth had simply sat together in a cold, silent fear, watching for the morning light to warm with gold and rose as the sun crested the horizon. Maker willing they had all survived.

Things had reached fever-pitch within just before Mara's cry of _"Ci sono vittoriosa!"_ carried on that clear lovely bard's voice reached inside. Even the dullest Chantry sister could translate "Victorious" from the exultant cheers outside.

The oaken doors were almost broken down by the stampeded exodus of the people trapped within the Chantry; Alistair, Teagan and Daveth waited for the commoners to precede them before they exited. And when the golden light of dawn hit their faces and a cold, fresh wind blew away the stench of rotting flesh and blood, Teagan knew they had survived.

He even found it in himself to thank the Maker upon the discovery of that of two thousand people fighting whilst four thousand cowered in the Chantry, only two hundred had died. Mara recited their names and vowed that each of their families would be given a freehold for their sacrifice; each of the survivors amongst the fighters would be given the traditional ring of gold and skin of mead; and that the leaders of the squads would be knighted if they so wished.

Much to Teagan's exultant amusement, Helena, wife to Ser Jory, informed the Bann of Whitebridge that she might just take her up on that offer so she could clobber her husband when he was being daft. Jory simply laughed and embraced his wife.

"We take a day of rest and then seek out Castle Cousland on the morrow," the Runaway Wife said softly. "Rest but maintain watch. We have burned away this menace but we know not what caused it."

Then Alistair stepped forward and with a cross-armed military bow addressed the crowd. "I am Alistair Theirin and I thank you for the gift of my life. Know that I will always regard Highever as the Queen-City of Ferelden as Denerim is King-City of Ferelden. And tomorrow I will join Bann Mara as we seek to enter Castle Cousland and rescue your Teyrn and Teyrna."

Teagan and Alfstanna simultaneously buried their faces in their hands as the crowd began to cheer wildly, only falling silent as Alistair raised his hand. "In recognition of their courage, the elves of the alienage will have the same rights and responsibilities as any freeman of Ferelden, which shall be known as _Tan'enansel'en, _the Three Gifts: _arla'durgen, _the hearthstone and the right to hold land; _bor'assan_, the bow and the responsibility to defend Ferelden; and _mi'nan_, the blade of vengeance, the right to equal justice."

With those words, Teagan realised that Alistair threw a gauntlet not only at Loghain and Nathanial Howe as the rightful King of Ferelden, but the entire social structure of Ferelden and beyond. He could only hope and pray that the Landsmeet, when it eventually met, would be as progressive as the prince was.

Maker help them all, because Alistair had just transformed a civil war into a potential genocide if the lords of the land disagreed.


	6. Chapter 5

Note: Thanks for the reviews, people! _Il Corvo pretende sempre che l'uccide!_ means 'The Crow always claims the kill!' :) Also, so far as I'm concerned, working for the Couslands automatically allows someone to take a level in badass; hence Aldous pulling a Wynne with the barrier. :D

…

**Chapter 5**

Castle Cousland, 4th Cassus 9:30

In the end it was Mara, Zevran, Daveth, Alistair, Morrigan and the three mabari who braved the servant's entrance to Castle Cousland.

The witch looked around with great interest for she had never seen such a large building, still intact despite dating from the end of the Black Age. The Tevinter ruins within the Wilds were more grandiose than this four-storey castle of rough grey stone wreathed in ivy and roses… but this place had more soul to it. A line long and unbroken had dwelt here and their very essence lingered within the stones themselves.

"Mara, remind me never to climb them walls of yours," Daveth said dryly. "Bloodthorn roses an' fire-vein ivy is just plain nasty."

Despite the concern for her parents trapped inside, the rogue grinned at the thief as Morrigan silently approved of whichever Cousland ancestor had planted the hook-thorned rose vines and painfully irritating ivy tendrils. Perhaps Mara's stock wasn't as hopeless as the witch feared.

She understood that not everyone had the good fortune (and even Morrigan used that term loosely) to be born of Flemeth and receive her most practical lessons on power and survival. But the group which the powers old and dark had assembled to fight the Blight were not entirely hopeless even if most of them were frustratingly _noble._ The Circle mage Wynne couldn't help it, she supposed, as she was possessed by a good Fade spirit; Jory was mostly an idiot. Daveth was refreshingly amoral, the few scruples he possessed practical ones; Carver Hawke was pragmatic and cynical, though inclined to being chivalrous. For a spymaster, Teagan was distressingly naïve; Zevran, for an assassin, ridiculously loyal to Alistair. Mara was wiser than she had been in Lothering as a youngster but still she sought the affection as well as the attention of Alistair even as he did the same with her. Mutual attraction and respect were far stronger bonds than the ephemeral ties of that utterly foolish notion called _love._

Still, for all their faults, their rag-tag band of do-gooders were rather more effective than not; at least they had the wit to give her due respect and space. Except Mara, who insisted on including Morrigan in matters which neither concerned nor interested the witch. She was even worse than that blasted Sister Leliana who'd so drummed things like _fashion_ into the girl…

They were on the top of the hill, having been guided single-file through a path full of switchbacks and blind corners that guaranteed any fool trying to take the route in an invasion would regret it, when some overdone, overdressed chit in a red silk dress came running up. _"Il Mara, ringrazia il Fabbricante che lei vive!"_ she babbled incoherently.

"Oriana, _pace_," Mara replied, catching the woman before she fell. "It is good to see you. How are my parents and what is wrong?"

"Demons! From the _castello_," this Oriana explained hurriedly. "They were summoned by _La Dolorosa_ and most of the servants are dead! She keeps us alive and has made Oren some kind of puppet for her amusement!"

"Catina Seforzina is a mage?" Mara asked intently.

"She is a maleficar, an apostate! She is the child of demons! She killed my mother, you know, and now she wants to kill us!"

Morrigan privately thought that the Antivan woman was carrying on a bit much; interestingly enough, Alistair and Daveth shared similar looks of scepticism. This Catina was apparently the enemy of Mara's foster father yet was guesting with the Couslands… and apparently Zevran answered to her.

"Whatever Catina Seforzina desires, killing us is the least likely of them all," Mara observed dryly. "Did she want us dead, my brother's wife, we would be dead and ashes now." She looked down at the town of Highever thoughtfully. "Go to Highever and speak to Banns Teagan and Alfstanna; they will find a safe place for you."

"The demon in Oren wants you to come alone," Oriana protested, only to be cut silent by a chop of Alistair's hand.

"No. You will go to Highever or be treated as an abomination," the ex-templar said harshly. "I don't have the luxury of coddling whatever demon lurks within your son, Lady Oriana."

"But what about Oren?" Oriana whined.

"We will do what we can for him," Mara promised. "But it is best you flee while you are free of the demon's control… Is she, Alistair?"

In answer, the Prince smote the Antivan noblewoman and sent her crumpling to the ground. "Ser Carver, take the Lady Oriana to the Chantry," he ordered; the knight who'd been following them at a discreet distance emerged from the bushes which shielded the hidden path and picked up the woman with a grunt.

"Wynne will be able to tell," Alistair assured Mara as Morrigan and Daveth didn't bother concealing their smiles at the annoying noblewoman being knocked out.

"I… guess so," Mara said, though she looked decidedly unimpressed about her sister-in-law being knocked out. "Let us enter then."

And for the second time in her life, Morrigan entered a castle. At this rate, she'd start simpering and putting on silly airs like most of a castle's inhabitants did if _The Rose of Orlais_ was anything to go by…

…

"I don't know how long the barrier will hold for," Aldous, house mage to the Couslands and too good an old man to be caught in this mess, told Teyrna Eleanor weakly. He'd held the barrier for two days now and his life force was fading fast; Catina had the choice of intervening herself or trusting that the few Knights of Highever crowded into the library with them could keep out the restless undead.

She should have realised the boy Oren was a mage and that Oriana was trying to hide the boy's talents else he be taken from her. More fool Rennio's sister for not seeking out the Mages' Collective, instead trying to stop the boy from entering the Fade by the use of certain Antivan herbs to induce an artificially Tranquil state. Poor boy; no wonder he fell prey to the demon in the wake of his grandfather's poisoning and the news of the slaughter at Ostagar.

If Catina had another mage-born here, she could easily free Oren from the demon's grip by catapulting the other mage into the Fade. Of course, that would require blood magic, but Oriana had set this up with her stupidity and had chosen to enter the Game of Princes by trying to poison the Sorrowful One. Only Oren would miss her once the truth was out.

There was also the option of outright slaying the boy as an abomination… but with Fergus lost at Ostagar that left Mara Cousland as heir. Catina wasn't sure how stable the girl was after the repeated traumas of the past year despite Zevran's voluble assurances that she was; the Master had become loyal to the Bastard Prince through that legendary, almost magical Theirin charisma, and so she knew he was incredibly biased.

The sound of combat reached Catina's ears; had the Knights of Highever managed to break in or were enemies of the Couslands trying to take advantage? It was only the Antivan cries of "_Niente archi di alloro!"_ and _"Il Corvo pretende sempre che l'uccide!"_ that alerted her to the fact it was at least two of the last people she ever expected to show up here… It appeared her subordinate Master had chosen his own motto.

"Is that…? Maker's breath, that's Mara!" Eleanor gasped, scarce slower than Catina to realise who was breaking the siege of the undead. "Aldous, lower the barrier."

The elder mage obeyed gratefully as three mabari came running around the corner, howling their unearthly battle cries. The hounds paused and sniffed, the biggest of the trio wagging his stubby tail and barking joyously at the sight of Teyrna Cousland.

"Cu!" Eleanor greeted the hound. "Is that… Barkspawn with you?"

The sole female mabari barked affirmatively, convincing Catina of the creatures' legendary intelligence. Then she howled in an obvious signal that brought several people, covered in blood and gall, to the entrance of the library.

"No trace of demonic energies on them," said the tallest of the men authoritatively; judging by his nose and the sharp refinement of his features, he was Alistair FitzMaric Theirin, the Bastard Prince.

"Good," said the small, fair-haired girl who could only be Mara Howe. Catina eyed the Runaway Wife for the first time in years, seeing echoes of the big-eyed child Rennio had practically adopted in the hard-eyed young woman she'd become. But no innocence remained in the sharp blue gaze directed her way, only a quiet watchful wariness. Mara wasn't judging yet… but she didn't trust either.

"Your Ladyship, we've cleared out the path to the servants' passage," Alistair told the Teyrna. "I want you to get out while you can."

"I will stay – as will Catina Seforzina," Eleanor replied firmly, much to the Sorrowful One's displeasure. If the demon possessing Oren tried to control her, she would be forced to use stronger arts than what she wanted to reveal.

"Fine…" Alistair sighed. "I want the rest of you to go to the Highever Chantry and fetch Senior Enchanter Wynne. We're going to need all the help we can get… and three mages are better than two when dealing with a possession."

…She'd forgotten the Bastard Prince was trained as a templar. _Mierde._ Aldous was in no condition to fight after two days of holding up a barrier.

"Three…?" Eleanor's green eyes narrowed as she eyed Catina, who affected an unconcerned demeanour even as she wondered if she could tap the energies of the Fade before getting smote by the Prince.

"My talents are my own concern – and I assure you, I had nothing to do with this," she assured the Teyrna. "I wish I had figured out that the boy Oren was mage-born sooner; this tragedy might have been averted or ended quicker."

Eleanor, never a fool, gasped. "Oh Maker, Oren's an… abomination… isn't he?"

"I fear so," Alistair said sympathetically. "Morrigan assures me that if we can kill the demon in the Fade, we can free him from its clutches."

Morrigan had to be the curly-haired beauty clad in a black leather corset and skirt that stood at the back; she had a magpie's sense of fashion judging by the miserable clash of jewels she wore. "'Tis so. The problem will be getting the power to do so."

"We'd need either lyrium or life force," Catina informed the other mage. "This may sound horrible, but given Oriana started this by concealing the boy's powers by drugging him with stillmind, I would suggest using her because I see no lyrium to hand."

It was harsh but practical. Were this Antiva, they would understand the justice implicit in such an action.

But Alistair smiled – and it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Thankfully the Highever Chantry has a supply of lyrium for its templars."

"They would give it to you so easily?" Catina challenged.

"Given we saved the entire fuckin' city from a buncha walkin' corpses, reckon they won't begrudge us it," said a rough-looking young man whose blood screamed _Grey Warden_.

"We must try, _La Dolorosa,_" Zevran said quietly. "We need the Couslands and I would rather not kill a child – or even Rennio d'Antiva's sister – if we can help it."

"'We', Zevran?" Catina asked sharply. "Have all of your friends become Crows then?"

"If you were not at least sympathetic to my family, you would not be here," Mara replied, her voice monotonous in the manner of a Tranquil. "And there are threats facing Ferelden which transcend faction lines."

"Enough," the woman Morrigan interrupted. "We waste time when there is a threat to be contained. _If_ you insist on saving the boy and _not_ using his worthless chit of a mother, someone should fetch Wynne and the lyrium post-haste."

"I'll go, Milady," said one of the kitchen elves. He bowed to Alistair, calling him _"Ellath'len"_ reverently before darting through the door and around the corner as if the mabari were chasing him.

"Zevran, Daveth, please guide the rest from here. We're going to need magical resistance – which neither of you have – to keep Connor occupied," Alistair requested.

"My Master will remain here," Catina retorted sharply. "We will need an assassin's blade."

Zevran tensed as he realised he was caught between loyalties – like the crow her guild was named for, Catina watched the elf closely. She knew she would lose him eventually… but she couldn't afford to now. Not when there was Rennio to deal with.

Time itself seemed to stretch for an eternity but in reality it was only two heartbeats before Zevran shook his head. "No, _La Dolorosa._ Service to you is just another form of gilded cage, however comfortable and plentiful the rewards may be."

"You would trade one master for another," Catina reminded him sharply. She'd hate to use darker arts to ensnare him, but she needed the elf for a little while longer… "I command your obedience as per the oaths of a Master."

Surprisingly it was Mara who found a reason to laugh, breaking that Tranquil state of hers. "You sent him the ring without demanding the oath!" she crowed. "He is a Free Master, able to give his allegiance where he pleases."

Catina swore vilely as she realised her mistake. Because she hadn't demanded an oath of obedience from Zevran once she'd given him the Master's ring, he was now a free agent, able to form his own allegiances as he pleased. "Zevran, stay by my side and I will give you Geraldo as I promised," she pleaded.

But the elf shook his head for a second time, grinning broadly. "No, _La Dolorosa._ I will do as _Ellath'len_ asks." He bowed and turned to leave, giving Catina no choice but to employ the arts which had kept her alive after Rennio had ruined her life.

…

Zevran knew that as soon as he turned his back, Catina would use blood magic. She _was_ a maleficar after all, even if that truth was rarely spoken aloud by the Crows. He trusted that his companions would keep him alive – for he, in becoming a Free Master, effectively had all of the advantages of being a Crow and only the disadvantage of answering to the Council of Grandmasters. And given that he was friends to a Prince, a high noble and other influential people, he was practically assured (should they overthrow Loghain and Howe) of becoming a Grandmaster in his own right.

The rush of displaced air alerted Zev to the fact that Alistair had smote Catina; in one smooth motion, the assassin drew one of his concealed knives and threw it as he spun around, the triangular blade sinking into Catina's eye even as Mara's hidar found a sheath in her chest.

"Alistair has never demanded anything more than my friendship," the Crow Master informed the dying Grandmaster coldly. "I have learned that friendship is above gold, above diamonds, in price."

"Heh… killed by friendship…" Catina wheezed, blood magic keeping her alive despite the throwing knife in her eye. "See… Rennio… dead."

"He'll answer for his crimes as you have," Alistair promised the burnt woman with surprising gentleness.

With a smile on her lipless mouth, Catina passed from this world to the Fade and with her went the last of Zevran's shackles. All that was hers was now his by right of murder; he was as free as a Crow could manage to be. He stripped her Grandmaster's ring, a deceptively simple platinum band set with a black opal, and placed it upon his right middle finger.

When he looked at Mara to thank her, he saw a heartbreaking sadness in her pale blue eyes. "If that is what being a Master of the Game is all about, I will never seek to become one," she said fervently. "If I play the Game, it will be for higher stakes than vengeance."

"Even if it is against Anora?" the Crow asked, knowing that Mara considered the woman to be one the main architect of her misery because of the kidnapping of her twins.

"_Especially_ against Anora," Mara replied. "I will see her brought down and use every tool I must… But I will do the deeds myself. If I must indulge my desire for revenge, then I will bloody my own hands."

"If everyone thought that way, I would be out of a job," the assassin quipped, both disturbed by and admiring of the girl's determination.

"Don't worry," Mara assured him. "There'll be plenty of work for you yet, _mio amico_. But go with Daveth. We must yet deal with Oren."

"I do hope you know your little stunt has left us one mage short," Morrigan said waspishly.

"No worries," Daveth said with a smirk as he went to help the old mage-man who'd kept the barrier going to his feet. "What could possibly go wrong? We just killed a Gamesmaster today here, folks. Demon's gotta be a cake-walk after this."

Zevran had to agree with him as he chivvied the survivors – bar Eleanor Cousland – out. He was now effectively a Grandmaster (by possession of the ring and perhaps a few strategic murders of dissenting or rival Masters) and free as a bird. All would be well, he was certain of it.

…

"You will kill Rennio."

Mara didn't bother framing the statement as a question as she and Alistair huddled together by a roaring fire, waiting for Wynne to return from the Fade; as the freshest mage, she'd all but demanded to go, adding that "she was in rather less danger than most mages."

Her mother Eleanor, ever calm in a crisis, had brewed tea and fetched some cheese and bread from the kitchen. She'd given her daughter a fierce hug before doing so, trusting that Mara, Alistair and friends knew what they were doing. For someone who'd seen a guest murdered before her eyes, she was remarkably serene. But then Catina offering to kill Oriana to save Oren may have had something to do with her lack of grief or regret.

"I mightn't be the one to kill him but I'm sure not going to spare him just for your sake," Alistair replied bluntly. "I… know you're his foster daughter and I'm sure he's got his good points and in a roundabout way I can understand him siding with Loghain and Nate Howe… But he's made a lot of people miserable for no reason I consider good. It isn't even the pragmatism I expect from a Warden like Daveth that drives him; it's his own damned ego masquerading as necessity."

Mara's fingers twisted in the gold rope necklace he'd given her at Ostagar as she digested his words. She'd never had illusions about Rennio's capacity for mayhem but had accepted it as the price of a better world. But Alistair with his clear-eyed honour and lawman's refusal to compromise in the face of injustice felt otherwise. Yet…

"I should tell you what your brother commanded of me just before we went to the Tower of Ishal," she suddenly said. "I… do not know what you will think of it."

"I recognised the Antivan word for death and Anora's name in all the gabbling you two were doing," Alistair observed. "Given my brother ordered _me_ to have Zev kill Nathanial, I'm beginning to think he wanted Anora… neutralised."

"He wanted me to kill her in such a manner as to make it look like suicide and bury her alongside him," Mara informed him flatly. "While Cailan was alive, he was something of a leash on Anora's ambition. Now he is dead… and look what she has become."

This command had troubled her; it wasn't the execution that bothered her, it was the way Cailan wanted it done. He'd decided that if he was going to die, he'd do so in a manner which would resound in legend forevermore. For all his good points, the previous King was probably also a bit insane, and had been. But Mara had assented… because he was King.

"That's… wow. Fucked up," Alistair said with a sigh, rubbing that subtly broken nose of his. "I've no real concern about Anora dying, but… no. Not like that."

Eleanor shook her head in bemused disgust as Morrigan, resting from the ritual which sent Wynne into the Fade, snorted derisively. "I agree with your original decision to make it quick and clean," the witch told Mara. "Pausing to gloat or complicate things gives your enemies time to strike back."

"I… don't intend to assassinate Anora; I could arrange that almost any time I wanted to, if not do it myself," Mara finally said. "I will confront her before the Landsmeet – as it should be."

"I suppose that some ridiculous duel will be in order?" Morrigan asked snidely.

"If I must. Unless the Queen's been keeping up her combat skills, it will be a quick fight," Mara replied. "But executed or duelled, I will see her dead for what she has done to Ferelden and myself."

"I thought you weren't going to play the Game of Princes for vengeance," Alistair said, frowning slightly.

Mara loved him, but he was such a silly goose at times. "I said 'for higher stakes than vengeance'. Anora is a danger to Ferelden. 'Revenge is sweet and a dish best served cold,' the Antivans say. Seeing Anora get the justice she deserves will be vengeance enough for me."

Alistair frowned a little before asking, "So revenge is ice cream?"

Perhaps there were better times than during a ritual to save her nephew's soul from a demon to be laughing hysterically, but Mara couldn't help it; Alistair's earnest question had just crumbled the walls of calm and logic she'd erected to deal with the fact she was killing (rekilling, she supposed) beloved servants and friends from her earliest childhood here. She laughed until she was breathless and her belly ached; even Morrigan and Eleanor allowed themselves laughter as Alistair grinned like a mabari who'd stolen a meat pie.

When Wynne returned from the Fade to announce the freedom of Oren's soul, she found four hysterically laughing people and two amused mabari. The mage simply smiled and shook her head, helping herself to some tea… When Mara collected herself enough to tell her the joke, the old woman joined in, laughing until someone cracked open the doors of the Great Hall to see if anybody was still alive.

There was still much to be done. But at least while there was life and laughter, there were reasons to keep on fighting for.


	7. Chapter 6

Note: Thanks for the reviews. _Acushla_ roughly means 'darling', I think. _Mio ragazzo di templare amato means_ 'my beloved templar boy'.

…

**Chapter 6**

Castle Cousland, 5th Cassus 9:30

_*I'm sorry, Wynne. Not even I can heal him.*_

*_It's alright,*_ Wynne told Faith as she rose to her feet, shaking her head sombrely at the trio who stood by the comatose form of Teyrn Bryce Cousland. "I can't heal him and no spirit I know of has the power to," she said aloud. "Even all the desire demon could do was keep him stabilised."

Eleanor buried her face in her hands, the first real sign of grief and strain she'd displayed over the past few days, as Mara and Alistair looked at each other worriedly. They needed Teyrn Cousland to help fight the Blight… because it was either that or surrender to Loghain. Wynne knew that if it came to Ferelden over their lives, Lady Howe and Prince Theirin would submit… but if it came to such a choice, the Senior Enchanter wasn't sure if she'd want to live in Ferelden.

"I would bring Morrigan in and speak to Teagan as well," Mara finally said. "No disrespect to you as a healer, Wynne, but Morrigan knows more about old magics than the entirety of the Circle and Teagan's contacts will allow him to determine the poison used on my father."

"You may need to be prepared to declare yourself Teyrna if Fergus… is lost," Eleanor told her daughter, setting aside that one brief indulgence in grief with the pragmatism of a true noble. "I think after your heroics over the past few days, no one would question your right to the title."

"But… you are Teyrna!" the seventeen-year-old protested, eyes widening to seemingly dominate half her face.

"If Bryce cannot be brought back to me, I am _Dowager_ Teyrna," Eleanor corrected gently. "Mara, these are straits as dire as any Highever has faced since the Couslands came to power. It will take Cousland strength, Cousland _blood_, to protect the teynir."

Mara bowed her head sorrowfully. "Yes, Mother," she said obediently.

"Then let us bring this daughter of Flemeth you call a friend and Arl Teagan in to see if they know of what can be done to mend your father."

Wynne had to conceal a smile as the witch, much more subdued than usual in the presence of the quietly authoritative Eleanor, and Arl Teagan entered. Morrigan had grown used to the black leather corset given to her at Redcliffe but had somehow found the time to arrange her collection of jewellery into a much more elegant arrangement. Probably because Mara, who had a passing knowledge of fashion and style, had quietly educated her friend on what went with what.

"I know of no sorceries which can heal your father; 'tis best to speed him on his way, lay him to rest and hasten the transfer of power," the witch advised Mara with what passed for sympathy for her, though most people would call it callousness. Wynne reminded herself for the umpteenth time that Morrigan had been raised by an insane apostate, if not outright abomination, who valued things like power and survival over niceties like love and basic human decency.

Teagan had remained silent as Eleanor relayed the symptoms of the poison which afflicted Bryce Cousland and had slain Rendon Howe. After Morrigan spoke, the Arl scratched his goateed chin thoughtfully. "Whoever did this wanted Rendon dead and your husband disabled," he mused. "I doubt it was Catina… It could be a third party looking to sow discord between the Howes and the Couslands…" His words trailed off as he looked uneasy.

"Or someone closer to home," Alistair finished flatly. He might despise the Game of Princes but Wynne knew he was coming to understand it all too well.

"Oriana tried to poison Catina," Eleanor said slowly.

"That goes without saying. No good Antivan matriarch would let an attempted poisoning go unavenged without an attempt of her own," Mara said with a hint of dryness. "But who within our camp would benefit from my father being… unavailable?"

Wynne had a few private suspicions but nothing concrete. The betrayal at Ostagar had been opportunistic but _someone_ had planned on destabilising Ferelden long before this… The worst fears of Loghain had been worked on and Nathanial Howe had risen far too quickly.

"I don't know," Teagan admitted helplessly. "I was so busy keeping a short leash on Nate Howe and an eye on his father that I didn't think to consider anyone else in Ferelden's nobility as a possible threat to our security."

"What if the same person who poisoned Bryce was the one who wanted those papers?" Alistair asked thoughtfully.

"Perhaps… But the papers which turned up on the black market _weren't_ the ones that were meant to be stolen," Teagan replied. "It appears that Rendon Howe had gotten his hands on Grey Warden papers and Duncan had hired Daveth through Amaranthine's Charitable Guild to retrieve them."

"If an outside party stole the Grey Warden papers and knew I would somehow be involved, they would have to know us better than anyone else in this world," Mara observed slowly. "And there are six… no, _five_… people on Thedas capable of playing the Game on that level."

"The Gamesmasters," Teagan agreed flatly. "Catina Seforzina was considered one."

"I'm… assuming… these people are great political minds and players?" Eleanor asked carefully.

"They are more than that. These are people of high rank and/or great wealth who play politics for _fun._" Mara practically spat out the last word. "Rennio is considered one; I am sworn to kill Marjolaine, an Orlesian bard and the treacherous mentor of my mentor Leliana, the only woman in their ranks."

"Varric Tethras in Kirkwall is said to be one – or a promising one," Teagan continued. "He appears to be a somewhat benevolent version though."

"As in he won't ruin people's lives for fun, he'll only do it if they betray him," Mara explained. "The other two or three are said to be the current First Warden in the Anderfels, the Arigena of the Qunari, and a Revered Mother who stands high within the Seekers of the Chantry."

"Maker's breath…" Eleanor sighed and looked out into the hall of the Cousland living quarters. "We can't spend our life worrying about some hypothetical puppet master. We need to find a cure for Bryce's poisoning… or as the daughter of Flemeth said, make the transfer of power to Mara as quick and painless as possible."

Wynne could only imagine the pain it would have caused Teyrna Eleanor to say such a thing. But she was a true noble, dedicated to her people above any personal sorrow, and the people of Highever would need strong leadership.

Teagan rubbed his strong nose thoughtfully. "I… have a potential lead, though I fear it could be a wild goose chase. Before his death, my brother Eamon was sponsoring Brother Genetivi to locate the Urn of Sacred Ashes – and the last missive we received from the good Brother was that he had a solid lead."

"Genetivi is a peerless scholar… but can we truly waste time chasing a fable?" Eleanor asked, voice desperate for any kind of hope.

"Given that he lives in Denerim, it may be no bad idea to call upon him," Alistair said with thinned lips. "We need to find out what the hell's going on anyways – and we will need to do _that_ in Denerim."

"We can stop in at the Tower of Magi and get that treaty confirmed," Ser Jory suggested from the doorway. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I overheard that last bit as I was returning from my room."

The Blight companions (as Eleanor called them) had been housed in the Cousland family quarters since there was plenty of room for them. "We can also take Oren with us. The sooner in the Tower, the better for him," Wynne agreed gently.

The boy had been traumatised by what happened and Wynne feared he might be made Tranquil. But perhaps in the Circle he could find the peace he so desperately needed… Oriana, for now, had been sequestered in the Chantry praying for forgiveness from the Maker – because Eleanor had made it abundantly clear she'd grant none to the Antivan woman. And if Mara's brother Fergus survived, only the Maker knew how that warrior would react…

"…'T'would best to send him to Redcliffe for now," Morrigan disagreed. "Bethany is a competent mage – and 'twas fear of the Circle which drove the boy to succumb to the demon, in part. The rest was wanting to save his family."

Wynne raised an eyebrow as the witch gave her a golden-eyed glare. "I took the trouble of _speaking_ to him instead of lecturing," was the sharp retort. "And Alistair has made an amulet which will temporarily ward his powers until he can master them."

"If we send Oren to the Circle in his current state, the templars will make him Tranquil," Alistair said flatly. "The Mages' Collective might just be what he needs at the moment."

Wynne had the sneaking suspicion that the lot of mages would greatly change once Alistair was crowned King. He seemed bound and determined to right every wrong ever done within the Kingdom.

"I will trust in your judgment," Eleanor said with a sigh. "I… hope this rumour of Genetivi's is true. The idea of losing Bryce…" She looked down at her comatose husband, lips trembling and tears in her green eyes. "But… if saving him will cost more than it's worth, you do what you must."

"We'll save him, I promise," Alistair said gently, fervently.

Mara and Eleanor gave him simultaneous smiles as Faith pulsed in approval deep within Wynne. It would be well. She was certain of it.

…

Alistair was getting ready for bed when somebody knocked on his door; much to his frustration, everyone except him and Mara were sleeping two to a room – but Teyrna Eleanor wouldn't hear of the rightful King of Ferelden bunking down with Carver, Jory, Daveth or Zevran… and propriety forbade him from sharing a room with Mara or any of the other ladies.

He opened the door (apparently his room belonged to Fergus, Mara's brother) and found Mara standing there, clad only in a thick velvet robe and fur-lined slippers. "I… can't sleep on my own anymore," she said softly. "I need the sound of breathing because the quiet scares me."

Alistair took a deep, shaky breath as he fought against the primal instinct to drag her inside, put her in his bed, and keep her warm and safe beside him. He wanted to do the right thing by her, take things slow because he knew she'd never been courted –

Before he could say anything, Mara leaned forward and captured his mouth in an aggressive kiss, teeth and tongue and lips doing something complicated that made his knees weak. When he was off-balance, she gave him a push that sent him staggering and then sprawling on the bed. It appeared she didn't want a slow courting as she shut the door behind them and then jumped on top of him.

It took every ounce of templar discipline (and a hearty dose of imagining Jory naked) to keep Alistair's baser urges from overwhelming his ability to think as Mara straddled him, her robe gaping open to reveal she was wearing a thin nightgown underneath. "Maker's breath… You are so beautiful," he murmured, finger tracing the line of her jaw. "I want you so badly."

"And so I am here," she told him, unbound hair falling down over one shoulder as she demonstrated a caress that showed she knew what she was doing.

"Marry me," Alistair said simply. "I… want you as my wife. Before we do anything."

It took another dose of imagining Jory naked to say those words because Mara was now nipping the side of his neck as her hand slipped lower. When he spoke, she paused, looking at him with wide eyes that swiftly turned calculating. He hated that part of her, the political part that always weighed the pros and cons of any situation, any decision.

"If we marry _now_, that may ignite civil war quicker than we can deal with it," she warned slowly.

"Loghain and Nathanial Howe started a civil war when they left my brother and hundreds of good people to die," Alistair answered. "If you're not ready… I understand. But I don't want… anything… to happen. Not until you wear my marriage-piece."

He realised that he never knew what sort of marriage-piece Thomas Howe had given her. Was it a ring or a necklace? No doubt it was expensive as befitted a noble. All he had was a once-broken amulet…

"Why? You want the world to know you own me?" she asked, voice now wary. Even Alistair, as naïve as he was when it came to women, knew she'd be touchy after Nate's very public staking of his so-called claim on her.

"I want the world to know we stand together," he replied gently. "Besides, _acushla_, if I were going to mark you as 'mine', I'd pick something a damned sight better than my mother's amulet."

She hadn't drawn away from him, which was good, but she hadn't answered him… which was worrying. Maybe she (understandably) wanted to know what she was getting before she married him. But he wanted to be married to her before they made love – for more than just romantic reasons.

"I… know there are ways to not have babies, but we may not have them on the road," he added quietly. "I… don't want any children we have to be considered bastards. It's… not fun."

"Trying to combine romance _and_ practicality?" she asked, voice softening a little. Much to his frustration, her fingers were tracing patterns on his thigh and all the imagining of a naked Jory in the world wasn't helping when it turned into a naked Mara.

"I've been talking to Teagan," he admitted softly, reaching up a hand to lace it through her unbound dyed hair. "We're in extraordinary times… Several houses down to only one heir, including mine and possibly yours; I intend to put the case to the Landsmeet that proven fertility is more important than any so-called scandal surrounding you. And honestly, love, no one can argue you've been a poor ruler to your people."

"I intend to go through Whitebridge," she said, changing the subject. "I must check on my bannorn."

"Of course," he murmured, though he'd feel a bit more comfortable on a ship rather than riding through Amaranthine. "But don't change the subject on me."

"You are stubborn," she murmured, sounding half-frustrated, half-amused. "Most men would jump at the chance to… well… have sex."

Alistair couldn't help but blush. "I want sex with you," he admitted baldly. "But for the sake of us and our future children, I want it to be done _after_ we're married."

"And the fact it would send a very clear message to Nate I'm not interested has absolutely nothing to do with it?" she asked, a touch suspiciously.

The Bastard Prince grinned slightly. "Oh, I admit it has some part to do with it. Kind of like a handful of nuts to go with my Highever Blue. Not necessary, but a bonus."

"…You're comparing me to cheese?" Mara's voice had sharpened.

"Well, you have to admit that Nathanial Howe's nuts." He wondered if he should kiss her before she punched him in the arm; but if he kissed her, he wouldn't stop until they were both… well, whatever happened with sex.

"You are insane. You ignore good political sense, you throw gauntlets in the faces of very old traditions, and you compare the woman you profess to love and wish to marry to cheese," Mara finally said with a laugh.

"Marry me," Alistair repeated. "I mean, just think – I'm already house-trained, you know all of my faults… and you know I fell in love with you when I saw your expression on seeing Cu."

"…I suppose you've got the dogs on your side. Cu has been telling me to mate with you practically since we met," Mara said ruefully.

"Him and Barkspawn are already mates," he pointed out wheedlingly.

Mara sighed in that way she admitted defeat. "Very well. We will marry tomorrow in Highever's Chantry with Mother Mallol doing the ceremony." Then she looked down at him, blue eyes almost glowing in the light of the banked fire. "I intend to stay in your bed, _mio ragazzo di templare amato,_ because there's still a thing or two which we can do that won't make babies."

Alistair then discovered that bastard Daveth was right: no lady could do what Mara Howe could with her tongue. And all it took to dissolve that _dweomer_ Tranquility of hers was a few choice movements in the right places.

Just before he slipped into a sticky, sated sleep, the woman of his dreams warm and nude in his arms, he decided he'd thank Nate Howe for teaching her so well… just before he killed him.


	8. Chapter 7

Note: Thanks for the reviews. As a reminder, Zevran's current armour is inspired by Geralt of Rivia's Raven Armour from _The Witcher_ games. And yeah, I'm channelling a less incestuous, more intelligent and competent Cersei for Anora. LOL. I also know the city elves are supposed to be forgetting their ways, but I prefer to think of them evolving and adapting them – and to have a redemption story/prophecy.

…

**Chapter 7**

Highever, 6th Cassus 9:30

_Anora is going to have a shit fit. And damned if it won't be entertaining to watch._

Taliesen helped himself to a tankard of excellent mead, seeing no reason why he couldn't join in the festivities. It appeared Highever had survived an attack by the undead (caused, according to gossip, by a possessed Oren Cousland) and was now celebrating the marriage of Mara Howe to Alistair Theirin. He had to admire the Runaway Wife's opportunism and skills of seduction in winning the admittedly naïve Alistair as a husband; she was truly Rennio's pupil, though rumour had it she was rather less… ruthless… than he.

He'd wandered along to the ceremony, held in Highever's simple Chantry of oak and granite, and mused on how to best explain the event to Anora without setting one of the Queen's many triggers off. Mara Cousland was a strikingly beautiful woman (Anora had more classically lovely features, but she looked like a primped-up statue instead of a real woman) and Alistair… Damn, he could see why Zev was practically drooling over the Chantry Boy because he was fucking gorgeous. They looked like rulers instead of… well, Taliesen had to bite his tongue and think of the Crows whenever he came into contact with Anora's ice-cold body.

He damned well knew Zev would come to speak to him. Fate and the whims of Grandmasters had put them on opposite sides; but with the hideously wasted body of Catina Seforzina being burned in a small ceremony as befitted her rank, there might be a chance for his friend to switch sides. Or for the pair of them to decide their own fates.

"One thing you can say about these people is that they know how to throw a hearty party," Zevran Arainai practically purred in Antivan as he slid into the seat next to Taliesen, casually sliding his right hand into the Journeyman Crow's line of sight.

"You ballsy son of a bitch," Taliesen breathed as he beheld the platinum and black opal ring of a Grandmaster on Zev's hand.

"Indeed. I intend to keep it," Zev observed serenely as he snagged his own tankard of mead. Eleanor Cousland mightn't be able to throw a proper feast for her daughter's wedding, but damned if she wasn't generous with the booze.

"You're here to recruit me," Taliesen said, stating the obvious. "But… I can't join you."

"Rennio has something you hold dear," Zev mused.

"Believe it or not, that bitch in Denerim has," the human Crow responded bitterly. "She mightn't be up to Rennio's level, but she's a competent player of the Game."

"Even if she considers herself a Gamesmaster?" the elf asked in amusement.

"Yeah. She's deluded at times, but don't underestimate her." The Antivan sighed and drained his tankard. "So Oren Cousland's a mage?"

_"Si._ And more than that, I cannot share." Zev tilted his head sympathetically. "Tell me what it is the bitch holds and I will get it for you."

Taliesen smiled sadly. "I… can't. It's… complicated."

"A pity. I'd hate to have to kill you, my friend."

"Stay out of my way and you won't have to."

"I cannot and you know this, Taliesen."

"And I can't stand aside, Zev."

"I know. Farewell, Taliesen."

"Farewell, Zevran."

The elf stood up and drained his tankard in one go, leaving the empty vessel in a convenient place for an overworked elvish serving wench to collect. He turned around, eyes sad, before leaving the Laurel Crown into the chaos which were the streets. It didn't take a genius to figure out that if they met again before this situation was resolved, one would kill the other.

At the moment, Taliesen wasn't sure if it would be better were it him. Chasing away such maudlin thoughts, he grabbed another tankard of mead and proceeded to get blindingly drunk.

…

Denerim, 9th Cassus

If this was what Fereldans called good brandy, Rennio never wanted to drink their worst. He toyed with a snifter as Marjolaine, that dark-haired Orlesian virago who'd somehow managed to climb to the ranks of the Gamesmasters, poured herself a goblet of Val Royeaux red. Despite Loghain's crackdown on anything remotely Orlesian, the good stuff was still available – just at an inflated price. It was almost a pity Rennio hated Orlesian wine nearly as much as he did the people's irritating accent.

But Marjolaine was speaking with an Antivan accent, one of the many talents she possessed as a bard and a gift Rennio would have dearly loved to co-opt for the Crows. But the League of the Rose, a loose confederation of bards, kept their secrets nigh as close as the Crows did. "To Catina: may rage demons nibble on her soul for eternity," the bard toasted ironically.

Rennio allowed himself a smirk. His days were full with trying to crack Duncan and Riordan's codes to gain access to the hidden caches, getting his new armour made, and keeping abreast of the current situation. Loghain drove his lackeys as harshly as himself; used to a more sedate pace, the Grandmaster was less than pleased to be expected to work from before dawn to past dusk.

"Has a rage demon offended you recently?" he quipped aloud.

Marjolaine smirked and shook her head. "No, I am in a good mood. Your Loghain took care of a potential problem of mine in Lothering recently."

"You should have killed the girl sooner rather than later," Rennio observed.

"True, but I was… fond… of her. Too fond, perhaps." Marjolaine sipped from her goblet delicately. "Leliana managed to pass on some of the tricks of a bard to your foster daughter, it appears."

"The daughter of my heart was always a smart girl," Rennio said with some pride. "Those bloody fool Cousland in-laws of mine failed to see what she truly was."

"It would be interesting to match wits with her in the Game," Marjolaine mused. "But she strikes me as a bit too sentimental, especially where those children are involved."

"You know the rules, Marjolaine," Rennio warned. "We do not deliberately harm children."

The Orlesian scoffed. "I am not so stupid, Rennio. But this queen of yours? She has made an enemy of your foster daughter. Watching the offspring of Loghain Mac Tir fall hard will be quite amusing."

"Tell the Empress to kindly stay out of Fereldan affairs until or unless the Blight threatens her borders," Rennio murmured with an exasperated sigh. "I have enough on my hands juggling idiots without dealing with her attempts to subvert the nobility."

"Celene is no fool; she'd wooed and almost won Cailan," Marjolaine pointed out. "Florian and his father handled Ferelden the wrong way. Conquering does nothing but rile them up. But if you seduce with songs and silks and _civilisation…_"

Rennio personally considered the Orlesians overly pretentious fops when compared to the height of civilisation that was Antiva, but he had to admire Celene's tactics. In another time he might have persuaded the current King of Antiva and the trading magnates to export Antivan luxuries at a discount to Ferelden in order to civilise the barbarians, but things were too precarious because of the Blight. Fucking archdemon, ruining decades of plans.

But whether he liked it or not, he had to work with Loghain and Nathanial Howe to see this Blight ended. He doubted this idiot Theirin prince would actually gather enough support outside of the traditionalists to win decisively in the Landsmeet, even with allies like the fundamentally naïve Teagan and the remnants of Catina and Duncan's people.

His support amongst the elves would cost him the throne too… Rennio would think the knife-ears would resign themselves to the dying of their race and interbreed with humans to get it over and done with. Idiots, clinging to ancient myths…

The elvish waitress delivered a meal of thick, almost gelatinous meat and dumpling stew; Marjolaine and Rennio visibly shuddered at the heavy, disgusting Fereldan food but tucked in anyways. Decent cuisine was thin on the ground as foreigners fled Ferelden in the wake of both the Blight and Loghain's purging.

"Tell your Empress that in the unlikely event of Loghain surviving the Blight, I'll deliver him to her; my use for him will be done then," Rennio finally said. The Teyrn of Gwaren was truly beginning to irritate him…

"Oh, she'll _love_ that," Marjolaine said with a sultry smile. "You should come by Val Royeaux sometime; I think you'd like it there."

Rennio doubted it but for the sake of diplomacy simply nodded and tried to eat his awful stew. He needed to keep an eye on Marjolaine for the moment, because she would let the world burn if she'd profit by it…

But he truly looked forward to the end of the Blight. Then he could rest and pass on his great work to younger, stronger hands.

…

Denerim Alienage, 9th Cassus (Night)

Shianni's tongue was practically bloody from biting it all day during her day job as a waitress in the Gnawed Noble Tavern but she'd endured because it was necessary. The daughter of a Kirkwall merchant's servant and his fiery-haired wife, she'd been taught the basics of almost every tongue in Thedas and was quite fluent in Orlesian, Antivan and Rivaini. Now that _Ellath'len_ had come to them, this made her perfect for the task she'd been set by the _seth'lin'len_ Yarin.

In another time she might have been hostile to Yarin but the elf-blooded Corporal had shared her knowledge of combat with the Alienage discreetly in return for knowledge of what it was to be elven. The elves were forbidden blades longer than a hand's length but Yarin had demonstrated how a small paring knife could be deadly in the right hands. Shianni decided that the Arl of Denerim's bastard elf-blooded daughter was a good person after all.

Enansel of Highever had sent one of the Alienage's precious messenger pigeons with a message: _Ellath'len_ had decreed that elves had the right to the Three Gifts of a Fereldan freeman and given them elvish names (clumsily, but he'd done his best). With that simple proclamation, the city elvhen knew that he was truly the one who would bring the races together.

He'd also married Mara Howe, it seemed, a woman from the oldest family in Ferelden. Valendrian had once explained that the Couslands were descended from the first men to set foot ashore in Ferelden and befriend the elvhen, receiving the promise that they would one day hold the land and would keep it so long as they treated the people well (for even then the elvhen knew the people would fade and die). And the Couslands may have forgotten the pledge but they still kept up their bargain as best they could in these times; the elvhen of Highever were permitted to carry bows and belt-knives, own their own homes… Teyrn Bryce and Teyrna Eleanor even sent down three barrels of mead and a haunch of roast animal for every wedding or festival held in the Alienage. It wasn't perfect… but it was better than living in Denerim.

"He married that blue-eyed girl, the one who stole the papers?" Yarin asked, sounding astonished when Shianni reported the news to her. "That's… either a good move or a bad one."

"The Couslands are an old, honourable family," Valendrian said chidingly.

"I… just don't know about this girl. Our boy's going to need all the allies he can get-"

"She's both a Crow and a bard," Shianni reported excitedly. Even locked in the Alienage, news of what had happened in Amaranthine because of Thom Howe's preferences had reached Shianni. Not even a shem deserved what the younger son of Rendon Howe found pleasurable…

"And he's got a Crow on his side – Grandmaster, if Enansel's correct – and the Houndmaster and now Teyrna Cousland," Valendrian added. "He also has us."

"We'll gather all the information we can," Shianni promised. "We'll see this Blight over and the rightful King on the throne."

"And then _Vhen'alas_ will come into being," Valendrian murmured. "Maker willing, let it be so."

"Let it be so," the others murmured. And it would be so – and soon. Or the Alienages would explode and die taking lots of shems with them… because this was their last, best hope. If it failed, then let the world burn.


	9. Chapter 8

Note: Thanks for the reviews and favourites! Mara's armour, concealed beneath her Chantry robes, is based on the Quicksilver Variant of the Dream of Antiva armour at Dragon Age Nexus… Except the colours are a vivid peacock and royal blue instead of the more subdued blue and black used in the original texture… I will also be radically changing up the sequence of events from canon because I can't see the nobility of Ferelden taking their sweet time to appoint a new ruler – when there's a clear heir – during a Blight.

…

**Chapter 8**

Castle Cousland, 10th Cassus 9:30

They'd lingered in Highever too long.

Mara reverently lifted the Antivan corset from its hiding place in the bottom of her closet, checking the silverite-riveted drakeskin for any sign of rust or damage from its long untended storage. Her companions had seen her in the formal blue-and-white armour left behind at Redcliffe but this armour had never been worn beyond the fitting for it at Master Wade's. Despite the intricate tooling and dramatic hue of peacock blue with royal blue accents, this corset and the matching leggings were designed to be worn beneath gowns and robes… yet in typical Antivan manner, if a lady was forced to rip away the dress she was wearing in order to fight, it had to look good.

It was a set of armour designed for the rare Crow who practiced the art of a bard; the Antivan murderers' guild and the League of the Rose tended to look askance at someone who combined both paths. But Mara truly didn't give a shit what either order thought so long as they left her alone.

Mara donned the padded silk breastband and undershirt with its lace trimming, then the thin silk breeches which were worn under the leather leggings. Then she pulled on the corset after donning the leggings and bade the hitherto-silent Alistair to lace it up enough to support her properly, but not enough to restrict her movement or breathing.

Much to her delight, it fit better than her formal articulated plate armour. It wasn't as protective but given she was still travelling as a Chantry lay sister, discretion was definitely the better part of valour.

"Most women wear lavish dresses; I've noticed with you that you put most of your style into your armour," her husband (Maker's breath, her _second_!) observed as he laced her up.

"Armour is more practical. Though Ferelden needs to learn how to combine style with practicality," Mara told him over her shoulder.

"You sound Orlesian," he murmured.

"Orlesians prefer style over practicality. Antivans, on the other hand, do their best to combine the best of both words," Mara corrected. "There is an old proverb: 'If it is made, let it be useful. If it is useful, let it serve more than one use. If it is able to serve many uses, let it be beautiful'."

"Interesting…" Alistair sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as Mara pulled on Leliana's old Chantry robes. Once properly sashed, no one would be able to guess she was wearing armour beneath their voluminous black, saffron, dusky-rose and scarlet folds. "I'm not… comfortable. With all of this cloak and dagger stuff."

"I know," she said softly, turning around to touch the scar which ran down his right cheek. He leaned his head into the caress like a cat; Mara had never met a man who needed physical contact so much as Alistair. Perhaps it was the years he'd spent living in the stables and then the Chantry; the lack of personal contact was fine for a standoffish woman like Mara but rather less so for someone as physical as Alistair. "But we will need to do it if we are to stay alive."

"I suppose so," Alistair mumbled. He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. It was the little gestures of tenderness like that which had won her over…

Sometimes (every day) she wondered if she were in love with Alistair or the safety and power his true rank gave her. That he was kind, gentle and sweet certainly helped, but was she in love with the man or what he represented? Was she as calculating as Loghain had implied?

"You doubt yourself again," Alistair observed. She'd confessed her concerns the night before their hasty wedding (Eleanor had extracted a promise they'd have a 'proper one' once the Blight was settled) and the Bastard Prince had made it abundantly clear he thought she was being silly. "…Or do you think we moved too fast?"

"It has been nearly two years since my first wedding," Mara mused. "In those two months I went from maiden to widowed mother. Now I am a bride again before I am eighteen…"

Much to her horror, Alistair looked contrite. "I'm sorry for pushing you," he began, only to find himself silenced by her fingers on his lips.

"It was I who pushed you by coming to your room the other night," she confessed. "I was just so grateful and lonely and wanted to feel safe…"

"You didn't come to me because you loved me?" Alistair asked, his golden eyes suddenly hurt. "Because I love you, Mara."

"I love you too," she protested quickly. "Truly. Even when I thought Nate was Thom and he was kind to me, I didn't feel what I do for you."

"What _do_ you feel for me?" he demanded, voice soft and urgent. Was he beginning to doubt because she did?

"There is nothing I would not do to see you safe and sound," Mara immediately replied. "I love you as much as I do my children."

"Then don't you _dare_ doubt yourself or what's between us," Alistair commanded fiercely. "You tell me I make 'bad political choices' but you've made as many in being aligned with me. You could have returned to that bastard Howe, married him, and been with your children. That would have been the _smart_ thing to do. But you didn't."

"Anora has every reason to keep my children alive and safe," Mara responded sadly. "They are safer for the moment in Denerim than they would be anywhere else… But you are the rightful King. Of course I would stand with you. Even if I didn't love you, I would stand with you."

"Then to quote everybody's favourite grandmotherly mage: 'have faith'," Alistair chided gently. Mara wasn't sure why he believed in her so much or why he would even love her. But she loved him and would do so for as long as she was permitted.

…

Denerim, 12th Cassus 9:30

"_That… little… slut!"_

A goblet of delicately blown Orlesian glass smashed against the stone floor of Anora's study, the fragrant scent of apple juice filling the air. Nathanial watched the Queen pace around, indulging herself in a fit of cursing that would do a hardened army sergeant proud after the Queen's Hound, a darkly attractive Gwaren man named Taliesen, had delivered the news of Mara and Alistair's wedding. Despite not being recognised by the Landsmeet, Alistair's claim to the throne was bolstered and legitimised by the honourable reputation of the Couslands; traditionalists like Arls Wulff and Bryland would flock to the Bastard Prince's cause even as Loghain and Nate worked to combat the Blight sensibly. The Arl of Amaranthine's hands itched to wrap themselves around the thick neck of that half-elvish bastard and squeeze until he was dead. He'd taken Mara from him.

"That's the mother of my children you're referring to," he informed Loghain's daughter mildly. Now, at best, Anora was Dowager Queen and future Teyrna of Gwaren; he saw no reason to give her the title of Majesty anymore – thank the Maker.

"Are you deluded, Howe? That little bitch you adore has dumped you for a Prince!" Anora retorted sharply, turning on him with a blazing blue-eyed gaze. "She's not the simpering little victim you think she is!"

"I've never thought that." Despite the hurt he was feeling at the thought of Mara being in bed with another, he was truly beginning to understand the shape of the game she played, one so subtle that Anora would miss it. In wedding and bedding Alistair as a young _fertile_ woman, she more than likely had the possibility of conceiving swiftly and surely, thus prolonging the Theirin line for another generation; once a healthy child was born, Alistair could be done away safely in some subtle manner. And as mother to the royal heir and daughter of the second-most powerful family in Ferelden, she stood an excellent chance of being recognised as Queen-Regent at the very least. The Runaway Wife was working to make sure no one could ever take her children away again.

_Our children,_ he corrected himself inwardly. He was beginning to understand why Mara was getting annoyed with him and asking for space at Ostagar now. She'd probably started the subtle campaign as soon as she realised Alistair was working as a lawman whilst hiding under the name Morna; the Chantry Boy's infatuation with the poor, pretty and pregnant laundress had been the topic of some amused gossip in the City Guard ranks. That fucking Theirin nose would have been obvious to such a smart girl like Mara. And then Nate had barrelled in and almost screwed up her plans.

"We need to counter this," Anora said, the fit of temper vanishing like snow in springtime as she assumed her façade of cool competence again. "Nate, you and I need to get married."

"Not even going to wait the year and a day?" Nate asked, concealing his urge to throttle the bitch in dry sarcasm. "That'll look a bit… loose… of you."

"I don't have the luxury. Alistair Theirin is a traitor-"

"Actually, by your laws he is the rightful heir," observed Rennio d'Antiva from the doorway. The Grey Warden was a cunning bastard who eavesdropped far more than he ought to, but he was also the only one who could make more of his kind to kill the archdemon. History was emphatic on that point.

He was also a partisan of Nate's; both held the Mac Tirs and their xenophobia in contempt and longingly looked forward to the day neither would be needed. Rennio had blatantly admitted one of his conscripts would be Loghain – why let a resource like him go to waste? – but he didn't give a damn what happened to Anora. Probably because the woman had used Nate's twins as pawns in the Game of Princes – and the Prince of Crows _despised_ people who dragged children into politics.

Nate noted that Taliesen gave the elder Antivan a startled glance, confirming the archer's suspicions that the Gwaren man was a Crow – or at least had connections to them. Hadn't Rennio said he had somebody who was skilled at kidnappings – and wasn't that what Taliesen had done in acquiring the underage heirs of almost every noble house in Ferelden?

"You may wish to know that Connor Guerrin just set fire to one of your nannies," the Grey Warden continued blandly. "It appears the boy – like his great-grandfather – is a mage."

For a woman who prided herself on her composure, Anora's response was short and obscene. "Call the templars," she then added before looking to Taliesen. "Why didn't you inform me of this?"

"I didn't know," the Hound said with a helpless shrug. "But with Oren Cousland also mage-born, you do realise this makes Mara Howe Teyrna of Highever and Teagan Guerrin Arl of Redcliffe."

Anora swore once more before composing herself and looking at Nathanial. "Get my father, Howe. We need to start making plans."

_Indeed we do,_ the Arl of Amaranthine thought smugly as he left the room. _Indeed we do._

…

Whitebridge, 13th Cassus

"Anora has called a Landsmeet to decide the rulership of the kingdom."

Teagan lowered the scroll handed to him by one of his agents, an elvish mercenary called Varel Baern, and looked at his companions as they sat around the great oak round table which dominated Mara's dining room. Much to his delight and pleasure, the Bann of Whitebridge held title to a lovely little manor of cream-and-beige fieldstone as part of her bannorn. It was nigh as homely as his own Rainesferre, if not as grand as Redcliffe Castle.

"I am surprised she is being… reasonable," the Houndmaster continued dubiously.

"She will call the Bannorn whilst she holds their heirs," Mara observed quietly. "It is the fate of the children who will decide this."

"Indeed, Your Highness," Teagan conceded with a slightly bitter smile. It saddened him to see Fereldan politics stoop so low.

He was also saddened to see Mara doubt herself; the rogue, for all her cunning, was so honest and transparent in her feelings for Alistair that he couldn't believe she wondered if her love for him was driven by the need to keep her children safe. If this was what being raised by a Gamesmaster made a person, Teagan was glad he'd never been in such a position.

"Nate also sent me a personal letter," the freshly minted Princess continued, blue gaze troubled as she passed an unsealed note to the Arl of Redcliffe, who opened it and read it aloud.

"'I am sorry for not giving you the space to enact your own plans to protect our children. Please forgive me and know that no matter what you do, I will always love you and help you as I can.'" Teagan lowered the piece of parchment, frowning worriedly. "I… shudder to guess what this means."

"I suspect he believes Mara is enacting a Valentina gambit," Zevran observed as he toyed with a snifter of fine Antivan brandy. Despite never having come to the house before now, Mara had made certain it was stocked with the best money could buy – much like she had with her bannorn.

Despite her notoriety or because of it, the people of Whitebridge were fiercely loyal to their Bann. A quarter of her men had survived Ostagar and when combined with the thirty or so militia she'd left behind to defend Whitebridge should the Blight proceed north, her force of sixty warriors was one of the stronger bands of warriors in the Bannorn. As acting Teyrna of Highever, she'd appointed Ser Carver Hawke as commander of her militia.

They were also getting troops from an unexpected source: the city elves. From everywhere in Ferelden, young men and women came forward to claim the Three Gifts Alistair had bestowed upon his mother's people, training under Carver and Ser Gilmore, a survivor of Ostagar and then Highever, with the devotion of Andraste's disciples. It appeared the residents of the Alienages had some kind of redemption story where a prince of elven blood would free them from their walls to live as free as anyone else. Alistair, unknowingly, represented that prophecy.

Teagan forced his mind from wondering if Alistair was going to damage his chances at the Landsmeet by pre-emptively giving the elves the same rights as any other freeman to look at the Antivan Crow Grandmaster curiously.

"Valentina Valisti was a Princess of Antiva who seduced and married a King of Nevarra, bore his heir, and then did away with him to rule for nearly eighteen years as Regent," Mara explained quietly. "She's considered a paragon of Antivan womanhood."

Alistair chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I love how you people think in plots and knots and toils and coils," he observed dryly.

"But if 'tis what Howe believes, there is a possibility for us to divide the opposition ere the Landsmeet begins," Morrigan observed in that strangely poetic croon of hers. The Chasind apostate's knowledge of politics and the manipulation of men worried and impressed Teagan, because he knew the witch had her own agenda.

"She is right," Zevran and Mara said in unison. Then the elf continued to speak, adding, "If _La Bella Signora_ were willing to play a double game…"

"_No."_ Alistair's response was short and fierce. "I won't abide dirty political tricks like that."

"Like it or not, every King must have spies and other agents to protect their nation from the spies and agents of other nations," Teagan told the mulish ex-templar softly. "Even the Qunari have their spies and agents, called viddathari."

"Spies, agents, even assassins I can accept," Alistair retorted, golden eyes grim. "I can… even tolerate Mara _not_ telling Howe he's a worthless sack of shit so he'll give us useful information. But I'm not giving those bastards any form of useful information which could hurt our people."

"Once word gets out the elves support you, there will be repercussions against them," Teagan added warningly. "And possibly _you_."

"What should I have done, patted the elves on their heads and sent them back to the Alienage?" Alistair practically snarled, his fury shocking Teagan. Where was the easygoing but stubborn Chantry Boy he knew?

"Of course not – but I would have waited until after the Landsmeet to grant them the Three Gifts," Teagan replied cautiously.

"No. Our enemies will know for what I stand," Alistair replied, his flash of fury fading into a quiet implacability. "And if the Landsmeet's unwilling to accept the elves as freemen, then the Landsmeet can go hang themselves."

"If you lose, Anora will likely want you dead," Zevran warned.

"And this is different from before – how?" Alistair countered sarcastically.

"This time it will be Mara who joins you on the gallows. Can you abide that knowledge, Prince of Ferelden?"

A sudden determination filled the Runaway Wife's eyes as she looked to Teagan. "Arl, when you send your reply, include my intent to challenge Anora to a duel of justice before the Landsmeet."

"Under what provocation?" Teagan asked, blinking at this sudden decision out of left field from the little blonde woman.

"The taking of my children from the custody of the Chantry – which was in direct violation of our agreement that should I retire to the Chantry for the duration of my pregnancy, the twins would be given directly into the care of Delilah Howe."

"That… could work. But you don't actually expect her to accept it, do you?"

"If she would be Queen of Ferelden, let her show herself willing to step onto the battlefield," Mara countered quietly. "If she refuses, she looks like a coward."

"And if she accepts and wins?"

"Then Alistair does the smart thing and marry her, knock her up, and then put her in the Tower for safekeeping," she replied dryly.

"You seriously expect me to do that?" Alistair asked incredulously. "I'd sooner get intimate with a cactus than that ice-cold slit of hers."

"_Mio templare amato,_ if she has actually kept up her combat training as religiously as I did in the Chantry, I will be very surprised," Mara replied fondly. "But if I do not see myself winning, there are… ways… to make sure she dies with me."

"I will not allow this!" Alistair snarled.

"Allow? I am not your property!" Mara shot back. "For what she has done, to Ferelden and to me, she will bleed. But I will not assassinate her. I will do this honestly and give her a fair chance… Is that not what you believe in?"

"I… yes." Alistair's agreement was grudging. "But she's probably going to think this is some kind of ploy."

"Let her think so. If it keys her up and distracts her from our real ploys, so much the better," Mara countered. "But I have run away too often. This time, I will not."

"Fine." Alistair thumped the heavy table with his open palm in anger. "But the duel's called off if you're pregnant. And believe me, _acushla_, I intend to do my duty as a husband to the utmost."

"Of course, my husband," Mara agreed submissively and then smiled. "Shall we retire upstairs and continue our discussion tomorrow?"

"I'll draft letters calling our allies to the Landsmeet," Teagan said with a heavy sigh. What was it about the young and their tendencies to throw boulders into ponds to make maelstroms?

"I'll get the popped corn an' ale ready for the show," Daveth observed cheerfully. "'Cause this is goin' ta be _good_."

'_Good' wasn't the word I'd use,_ the older man thought with a sigh. Damn Anora and her wrongheaded pride and damn her father and Howe for being traitors.

This was going to be short, savage and ugly – not to mention weakening Ferelden at a critical time. But what choice did they have when they needed to be united against the Blight?

…

Denerim, 14th Cassus

Marjolaine lit a candle at the altar of Andraste and bowed her head to the Bride of the Maker before setting the taper down gently with all the other ones lit for the dead. The wax was scarlet as blood, scarlet as Leliana's hair, scarlet as the dress Marjolaine wore in memory of her beloved and dead pupil.

It was dangerous in Ferelden but there was also opportunity. Intrigue within Orlais, within Celene's court, was getting stale and even tedious despite the civilised surroundings. In this land of wet dog smells and mud, there were surprising challenges and curious puzzles – like this bone-deep resistance they possessed against the subtle influences of Orlesian culture. Beyond reason, beyond ambition, perhaps even beyond salvation these Fereldans valued loyalty. Perhaps there was something to be said about the legends of descent from werewolves and dogs, because only canines were that pathetically loyal.

And there was unfinished business here. Leliana might have been driven mad by her travails before her death at the hands of Loghain, a murder Marjolaine would avenge (for only she had the right to make and break her student), but she had guarded those Howe brats like a damned mabari. Only one promise would have seen the redhead willing to lay her life down like that: the promise of Mara to see Marjolaine brought to justice for her actions.

Marjolaine was wise enough to know that Mara was too smart to settle for throwing the Orlesian bard in jail. Oh no, it would be the murder game between them instead of Rennio's cold and calculating distant executions in his Game of Princes. It would be a dance of desire and death, more intimate than any man could appreciate.

She would capture the blue-eyed girl's last breath in a kiss as she drove a blade through her heart. The girl was a bard and would understand such intimacies, surely. _Such_ a pity she wasn't Orlesian… She'd have made a wonderful pupil.

Marjolaine would win. Just as Orlais would win back this wretched land and teach them the true meaning of civilisation. In time, the descendants of the nobility would be blindingly grateful.

With a sigh, Marjolaine rose from her kneeling and made her apologies to the Maker's Bride. She had to go cultivate another future member of Ferelden's civilised ruling class…


	10. Chapter 9

Note: Thanks for the reviews and an especial thanks to Draygonne61, who's assured me that because it's winter and Ferelden is the size of Ireland, I'll have enough time to run the Sacred Ashes quest before the Landsmeet. He saved my bacon with some clever calculations and Raven Jadewolfe's map/table at DA. But because this story is AU, Landsmeet will be done out-of-order; Sacred Ashes, Nature of the Beast and Broken Circle can be done along the way, but Landsmeet will happen before A Paragon of Her Kind somewhere in Cloudreach or Bloomingtide. It will be also handled in the third part of this series… I'm also doing a time-jump to set things in place and gloss over the travelling time. And for those asking after a wedding, there will be a nice big 'official' one later on. I promise: Eleanor's feeding the plot nugs wedding cake in preparation for it.

…

**Chapter 9**

Whitebridge, 15th Cassus 9:30

"We'll be goin' ta Denerim via Kinloch Hold an' comin' back ta Highever via the Brecelian," Daveth said decisively as he entered Mara's dining room on the morning after they'd gotten the notice of the Landsmeet. "We have ta collect them treaties."

He and Jory had spent most of the night talking because even though he knew their noble companions were worried about the Blight, the darkspawn were taking second place behind the more immediate threat of Loghain and Nate Howe. Daveth could appreciate their concerns but they needed them treaties just in case Mara and Alistair couldn't get Ferelden on their side.

"Is that really -?" Teagan began, only to be cut off by Alistair's chop of the hand.

"The Grey Wardens have their own concerns," the Prince told the Arl calmly. "If their brethren hadn't been left to die, they'd be staying neutral in the whole affair…"

"Or havin' folks on both sides like we have now," Daveth admitted easily. "Rennio might be a prick but I think he'll do his duty by the Wardens."

Mara's face tightened at the mention of her foster father and Daveth pitied her for a moment. That Antivan was a prick and a half – every time his name came up, Duncan's voice had become thick with contempt – and he should be here. Or should've died at Ostagar. But nope, he'd run to Loghain and Howe probably because he thought they'd win. Because evil scheming pricks like Rennio thought the bastards always won.

Daveth admitted privately he was keen on helping Mara because of the wrong he'd done her. Alistair was a self-righteous dick but Mara had been screwed over by practically half of Ferelden including the thief. So he wanted to try and do the right thing by her but he had to get his duty done at the same time.

"It will also allow us to open diplomatic channels with the mages and Dalish," Mara added coaxingly.

"Us? I thought you would be staying here or in Denerim if you are still suffering post-birth weakness," Teagan answered, sounding surprised. "We'll need someone to organise the gathering of our allies."

"My health is much better. And now that I am Alistairio's wife, keeping on the move would be best," Mara told the Arl.

Daveth noted that the healing mage Wynne looked sceptical about Mara's claim but that she also kept silent. "Actually, Milord Teagan, you might be better ta stay an' do that," the thief suggested. "Ya are the Houndmaster after all."

He didn't want to be a bastard and outright say it, but even though Teagan was a decent, diplomatic bloke, he was also something of a deadweight when compared to the better fighters in the group.

"We'll go to Denerim together and make our decisions there," Alistair decreed calmly. "We've talked enough; spend the rest of the day readying yourselves for we journey at dawn tomorrow."

Daveth decided not to tell him where to shove his orders because diplomacy was the better option at the moment. So he obeyed – as did everyone else.

…

Denerim, 25th Cassus 9:30

The people of Denerim took notice when a force of thirty troops, ten in the aqua-and-teal zigzags of Waking Sea, ten more in the red-striped brown of Rainesferre, and the final ten in the royal blue-edged peacock blue of Whitebridge marched into the capital city's marketplace with their Banns at their head. The Bannorn's lords were each allowed nine men-at-arms and one knight within the bounds of the Arling of Denerim: Alfstanna, who'd accompanied the Prince's supporters to Whitebridge and then to Denerim, had her cousin Ser Joachim; Teagan had Ser Perth; and Mara had the flame-haired Ser Roland Gilmore.

The Bann of Waking Sea looked at her cousin and fellow Bann, noting the subtle trembling of Mara's lips and the over-bright gleam in her big blue eyes. The girl had been pushing herself since the birth of her twins, no doubt to prove herself as a competent ruler and Bann, and it had taken a collapse during the hard ride along the North Road to Denerim to force her to accede to Teagan's request that she stay in Denerim. And even then she'd only agreed after Alistair had ordered Teagan to remain.

_So Anora has her Hound and Mara now has one too,_ the brown-haired woman mused silently as they rode before their troops, the vanguard to prepare the city for Alistair's coming in two days' time. It had been deemed diplomatic for Mara and Teagan to enter as the Banns they were confirmed by the Landsmeet as instead of the Teyrna and Arl they actually were; it had taken a marathon healing session by Wynne to allow Mara to ride safely – and even now she wore a plain riding habit and breastplate instead of the armour she preferred.

Alfstanna knew _dweomer_ people, those semi-Tranquil souls with a resistance to the Fade – her brother Irminric, quite happily a templar, was one like Mara. It popped up now and then in the Waking Sea line, to which Eleanor Cousland belonged, and so she knew how to read a girl everyone else thought cold-eyed. Mara was getting overwhelmed and would soon, somehow, explode.

_Widowed once and married twice in two years, forced to give up her twins, and now thrust into the heart of Fereldan politics during a Blight,_ Alfstanna thought with a sigh as Captain Kylon, Alistair's right hand in Denerim, came up to them. From the looks of the banners raised on the Standards of Gathering, the flagpoles used to announce which nobles were in town, they were the first of Alistair's supporters to arrive; Sighard of Dragon's Peak and Loren of Lakewood were neutral but Ceorlic of Lothering, Franderal of West Hill and Darby of Darby (no one ever accused the Darbys of originality) were already kissing Loghain's arse. Not that any of those three bastards had even _sent_ troops to Ostagar…

"Arl Alistair Theirin will be arriving in two days with Redcliffe and Highever forces," Teagan assured the hard-bitten lawman before he could ask the obvious question. "We deemed it prudent for him to travel with the larger troops permitted an arling and teynir."

"Good," Kylon grated. "The Mabari Throne's getting cold and the traitors annoying."

Alfstanna grinned at the Captain's bluntness. But Mara frowned slightly. "We won't be able to convene the Landsmeet until Cloudreach at least," she reminded the warrior. "And there is still much to do."

"True enough, Milady," Kylon acceded grudgingly. "But I'm counting down the days."

"As am I," Mara agreed fervently.

"Well, nothing seems irregular… I assume you'll be staying at the Redcliffe or Cousland estate?"

"Redcliffe," Teagan immediately replied. "It has the best defences."

Kylon grinned and waved them through.

And so they entered Denerim to begin the first stages of a new game.

…

Fort Drakon, Denerim, 25th Cassus (Night)

Yarin opened her eyes groggily and found herself chained to the wall of a small cell.

She wasn't surprised, really. Her efforts in arming the elves and helping them escape Denerim to join _Ellath'len_ were bound to get her captured eventually. But it hadn't been any of the traitors' men who'd arranged for her to be kidnapped; it had been that bastard Hank Ceorlic, one of the Guard's own men.

Yarin supposed she shouldn't be surprised by _that_ either. Alistair had managed to piss off Hank as a Private and becoming legitimised had only deepened the hatred. Hank was also a natural arse-licker, so gluing his lips to Loghain's posterior wasn't out of character. But it didn't stop her from being pissed over the matter. Guards, even the scummy bastards, were supposed to stick together.

At least Slim Couldry was still out and about; a criminal he might be, but he was dedicated to the coming of _Vhen'alas_. He would support Alistair the best he could – and perhaps his skills would be better suited to the task than Yarin's own.

"So. You're the elf-blooded traitor encouraging an elvish rebellion." Nate Howe's raspy voice whispered through the darkness like a whetstone against rusty iron.

"And you'd be the traitor who left good men to die at Ostgar," Yarin countered, figuring she was due to be tortured and executed anyways, so not bothering to bide her tongue.

"I am a patriot who did what he had to!" Howe retorted.

"Isn't that funny because I think the same about myself?" the elf-blood pointed out dryly.

"You're encouraging the elves to bear arms illegally."

"Actually, I'm fulfilling the commands of my rightful Arl. Loghain has no business calling himself Regent when there's an heir and Anora is Dowager Queen, so therefore has no authority."

There was nothing the Arl of Amaranthine could say to that, so instead he gestured to the guard who'd accompanied him. "Interrogate her," he ordered curtly before stalking away.

The guard was a young stripling who still wore Recruit chainmail. "Corporal, I…" He trailed off, looking confused. "I can't let you go."

At least this one knew what Howe was doing was wrong. "It's okay, kid. Kick me a couple times, call me names, and I'll give you information that'll trip that prick up and make him seem like the traitor he is."

"Yes ma'am," the recruit mumbled, looking unhappy about his orders. But he obeyed like the good lad he was.

Yarin might be in prison… but she was also in the best damned place she could be to cause the traitors some more damage.

…

Denerim Alienage, 26th Cassus (Morning)

Zevran kept his long flaxen hair loose and hanging in his face to conceal his distinctive tattoos as he trudged into the Alienage to speak with Hahren Valendrian. He nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw a lithe elven woman in green, carrying a staff and with the ornate tattoos of a Dalish Keeper, sitting calmly beneath the Vhenadahl speaking to the elder.

"I'll be no trouble at all, I promise," she told the dubious-looking old man. "I'm just here to collect the lore of the flat-ears."

"We prefer _elvhen'suledin,_" the elder corrected mildly.

"'Our people endure'?" the Keeper asked, her light voice surprised. "I… beg your pardon."

"You have it," Valendrian said softly. "I'm glad to have you here, Keeper Merril, but I can't promise your safety from the templars. You understand this?"

"Oh, of course. Hopefully they won't see one more elf." Merril looked up as Zevran approached.

_"Andaran atish'an,"_ Zevran greeted formally, bowing his head as was appropriate to show respect.

"Oh! _Andaran atish'an_," Merril greeted. "You have very interesting _vallislin,_ _lethallin._"

"They are the marks of his status as an Antivan Crow," Valendrian said severely. The elven elder looked up at Zevran with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you were at _Ellath'len's_ side."

"I was. He will enter Denerim on the morrow; I have been sent to scout ahead," Zevran responded calmly. "I see Loghain and Howe's grip on Denerim is tenuous at best."

"It's strong enough to have our _seth'lin'len_ allies taken in the night," Valendrian replied bitterly. "I am waiting for the alienage to be locked down soon under some excuse."

Merril smiled cheerfully. "Don't worry. If they close the gates, I can open them easily enough."

"Are you trying to get captured by the templars?" Zevran asked the mage bluntly.

"Oh no. I'm sure tree-roots grow all sorts of strange places." The Keeper looked at the two men curiously. "Now please, tell me of this beloved child of yours."

"That, _hahren_, is your tale to tell," Zevran replied. "I should leave."

"_Dareth shiral, Mi'din_," Valendrian farewelled, giving Zevran the elvish name that had been bestowed upon him the first time he'd entered the Alienage. 'Blade of Death'; a good name and so Zev tolerated it.

Zev managed to climb over the wall just in time as soldiers in Amaranthine colours marched into the alienage, escorting four men in Tevinter magister robes and ten more people bearing the Imperium's device.

"Due to the recent spate of plague within the alienage, we have brought healers to tend your sick… and of course, you'll need to be quarantined for the rest of the city's safety," announced the bull-voiced Captain. "Go to your homes and pray for the Maker's forgiveness."

_Fucking _bastardos! Zevran snarled inwardly as he dropped from the wall on the other side before he could be spotted. If the magisters were healers, then Zev was a Chantry Brother.

Maker willing, some of the elves outside would still be able to help. Because the elves of Denerim were about to face their worst trial yet.

…

Denerim Marketplace, 26th Cassus (Afternoon)

Shianni was minding her own business (mostly) in the marketplace and doing a little pickpocketing on the side when a soldier in Amaranthine colours walked straight up to her and grabbed her by the wrist. "C'mon elf, back to the alienage with the rest of your wretched plague-ridden kind," he snarled as he began to drag her away from Master Ignacio's stall.

"Let me go, you shem bastard!" she yelled, struggling against him. _Not again. Not again. Please Maker not again…_

The soldier hit her. "Watch your mouth. I don't want your filthy elven diseases."

"Did you just imply that my lady's maid has a disease?" drawled a husky contralto, rich with the accents of Antiva and a drawl of highborn contempt, from behind them. Startled, the guard let Shianni go and they both turned to face the speaker.

The noblewoman was small for a shem, the height of an elven man, with elaborately braided dark hair that was rather pale at the roots and cold winter-blue eyes that were enhanced by the swirling blue tattoo on her face. Her gown was fine silk of royal blue with peacock-blue trimming, cut in the square-necked Antivan mode, and she was accompanied by a flaxen-haired, olive-skinned elven man who openly bore weapons and a flame-haired shem in dragonbone plate.

"Bann Mara… She wasn't seen accompanying you into the city-"

"Because I had her here preparing for my arrival," Mara replied scornfully. "And before you ask why she has such plain clothes for a lady's maid, it is because I was too busy fighting darkspawn at Ostagar to arrange an appropriate wardrobe."

"I… err…" The soldier looked nervous. "My lady, she might have the plague."

"The household of the Arl of Redcliffe has a talented healer-mage within," Mara assured him coolly.

"I… err… yes." It would take a man braver than this soldier to defy a Bann, even a mildly disgraced and possibly traitorous one like Mara Howe. He scurried off, leaving Shianni alone with her… rescuers?

"I apologise for just calling you my servant, Miss Shianni, but Zevran tells me the Alienage is locked down with Tevinter mages within," Mara informed her in Antivan. "We've been doing the rounds, trying to grab people before Nate's scum do."

"Thanks," Shianni replied in the same language, somewhat ungraciously. Maker's breath, what was happening to her family?

"You'll have to come with us or they'll put you back in the alienage," Zevran told her. "I swear by the tree of the people you will be free to come and go as you wish."

"I really don't have a choice, do I?" she muttered as she fell into line behind the imperious Mara. The things she tolerated for _Vhen'alas._

…

Arl of Redcliffe's Estate, 26th Cassus (Night)

Alistair entered Denerim just before the gates closed for the night, when the Nighters took over from the bastards, who never worked an after-dark shift if they could help it. He rode in with the Grey Wardens, Eleanor Cousland, and sixty troops from Highever and Redcliffe. The gate-guards bowed to him and saw no reason to deny the party entry.

He knew that gossip would spread through the city like wildfire. He also knew that it would take three months or more to prepare for the Landsmeet.

_Maker damn Loghain and Howe for this._ He would have been content as Arl of Denerim all his days… but now he must face the idea of becoming King to deal with the Blight. He'd have to make hard decisions – including the possibility of leaving his wife behind in the same city as the man who obsessed over her. But the past few months were taking their toll on Mara – and despite her ability to fight, she'd be better off here marshalling their allies for the Landsmeet than chasing down treaties and legends.

He crossed the marketplace to Eamon's old estate and accepted the salute of the Rainesferre men stationed at the gate. The Arl's miniature keep was more than capable of housing ninety extra troops plus the ten or so knights and several noble guests here. It was also one of the most defensible buildings in the city.

Mara was waiting for him in the dining room with their allies: Zev, Teagan, Alfstanna, the knights, some red-haired elven girl in a fine gown… "You had best sit down and eat before we tell you what's happened over the past two days," she said grimly.

Alistair obeyed and wound up exploring the outer edges of his vocabulary once he'd learned of the closing of the Alienage. The redhead turned out to be Shianni, a survivor of Vaughn Urien Kendalls' little raping spree three years ago – and now (officially) Mara's lady's maid. She obviously wasn't pleased about it… but it was better than being in the Alienage at the moment.

He swore even more on discovering Yarin's disappearance. The elf-blooded Corporal had encouraged him to learn more about his heritage and was something of a mother figure for him. Losing her… would be hard. But he could do nothing for her. And that hurt hardest of all.

It took most of the night to fill him in and it wasn't until the sky was light with pre-dawn grey that everyone sought their beds. He curled himself around Mara in the great bed of the main guest chamber and found sleep hard to find; judging by the stiffness of her back, Mara too was suffering insomnia.

Her continued ill health was worrying him; even with all the stress, she should have been healed months ago from the birth of the twins. But she was suffering continued weakness… He was worried for her but didn't know what to do.

So instead he held her and murmured endearments in her hair until she fell into a restless slumber. Maker forgive him, but it would be hard to leave her.

Yet it had to be done. He couldn't put Ferelden above one woman, even Mara.

It would be the hardest thing he'd ever do.


	11. Chapter 10

Note: Thanks for the reviews! If the scenario that I'm setting up sounds familiar, it's because the Denerim part of the next 'book' in the Game of Princes series will be influenced by the chaos of Kentosani in Janny Wurts and Raymond E. Feist's _Empire_ series during the return of the Emperor from the aborted peace meeting on Midkemia. I swear Mara sharing the same name as that series' protagonist is pure coincidence!

…

**Chapter 10**

The Royal Palace, 27th Cassus 9:30 (Morning)

_I'd give a lot to know how that little bitch always manages to land on her feet… or perhaps more accurately on her back,_ Anora wondered cynically as the Runaway Wife entered the Landsmeet Chamber on the arm of the Bastard Prince, both of them dressed (or armoured, in Alistair's case) in their finest. Mara was looking pale and peaked but immaculately groomed within an inch of her life, white-gold hair styled in a simple braided crown with a single strand of freshwater pearls woven throughout to match the belt and choker, marriage gifts from the people of Amaranthine, which she'd worn to her wedding to Thomas Howe. If nothing else, Anora mused, she had to admire the little chit's utter bare-faced gall. And find out who her seamstress was, because her sapphire-blue silk gown had the square neck and wide skirts of the Antivan mode but somehow managed to look Fereldan in its simplicity.

Alistair was armoured in the silverite armour Cailan had gifted him with a tabard bearing his personal coat of arms: two rearing mabaris holding a shield quartered into the Denerim, Chantry, Redcliffe and Fereldan coat of arms. Anora felt an unexpected pang as she realised that this hard-eyed lawman was everything she'd once wanted Cailan to be. It was regretful it couldn't be.

Her eyes wandered from the duo to study their supporters: Teagan wasn't unexpected, of course, as his brother had fostered the bastard; Alfstanna, of course, would stand with her kinswoman Mara. The elderly woman in the silk robes of a Senior Enchanter was vaguely familiar but Anora had no idea who the dark-haired, scowling knight or the red-haired, pale-faced one was. Somewhat disturbingly, Duncan's righthand man Daveth had survived in addition to the dull-eyed Ser Jory… The party had even brought elves with them, only confirming Alistair's treason in granting the lesser race rights and responsibilities they weren't equipped to deal with. Zevran, of course, followed Alistair like a faithful hound but Anora had no clue who the angry-looking red-haired elven girl was. She'd need to get Taliesen on it.

Anora gave Nathanial a pointed glance as the archer's pale eyes fixed on Mara like she was the Northern Star and he a sailor. They would be married to strengthen Anora's claim to the throne and she didn't need the Arl of Amaranthine's misguided affections for the manipulative little chit ruining their plans.

Interestingly enough, Eleanor Cousland was in the group but Oriana Cousland wasn't… That was… concerning. Their tentative alliance with Rennio d'Antiva would fall apart if anything happened to his beloved sister.

Finally Anora allowed herself to meet the eyes of her rival. Sea-blue orbs met ice-blue ones and Anora felt a chill as she saw her death therein. This conflict would end with one of them dead – and both women knew that. Then and there, Anora vowed it wouldn't be her, it would be the little bitch whose actions had divided Ferelden at the worst possible time.

The Queen rose from the Lesser Mabari Throne, taking strength from her father's silent support to the right of the dais, and nodded regally to the approaching duo like they were petitioners coming to ask a favour of her. Alistair appeared to miss the subtle posturing but Mara didn't, judging by the icy glint in her eyes. Anora allowed herself a cool smile as the tightening of the _dweomer_ woman's features.

"How may the Crown help you?" she asked formally, as she had done so countless times before over the past five years.

"Actually, as Dowager Queen, you are no longer a representative of the Crown unless the Landsmeet decides otherwise," Alistair corrected mildly.

"As you are not King until it decides so," Anora reminded him.

"I have not claimed to be King, only the rightful heir to the throne," Alistair answered – and Anora nearly smiled with delight as he fell into a trap.

"Yet you have granted the elves the rights of freemen," she chided quietly but clearly. "And your people are training them to bear arms."

"That is within the rights of a liege-lord to do as Highever, Waking Sea, Rainesferre, Redcliffe, Whitebridge and Denerim answer to me," Alistair pointed out.

"Oh? Has Bryce Cousland awoken or Eamon returned from the dead to give you Highever and Redcliffe?" Loghain asked harshly, speaking for the first time.

"The surviving bannorn of Highever have confirmed Mara as acting Teyrna until her father's recovery or demise and Teagan has been recognised as Arl of Redcliffe by his bannorn as Connor is no longer eligible due to being mage-born," Alistair answered mildly, only the hardness of his admittedly extraordinary golden-amber eyes revealing his anger. This man was no longer the open-faced templar initiate she'd threatened with execution should he try to leave the Chantry the one time they'd met.

She'd have to have Taliesen track down the leak in her security who'd let the knowledge of Connor Guerrin's magehood escape.

"Teagan, I can accept… But Mara? She's broken every vow she's made since getting married to Thomas Howe. That alone should make the Landsmeet question her fitness." Anora had to watch her words. She couldn't insult the Prince.

"Well, given that her wedding night was spent with Nate Howe on the order of Rendon Howe as it was known to him Thom Howe was sterile, I'd argue that the Howes made a marriage contract with we Couslands under false pretences," Eleanor retorted. Then the Teyrna fixed Nathanial with a steely gaze. "If you'd come to us after everything happened and told us, you'd be married to Mara now instead of playing attendance on the Dowager Queen."

"Can't Mara speak for herself?" Anora challenged. She wanted to hear the Runaway Wife speak for herself. She wanted everyone to hear that Antivan accent and know this girl was a creature of lust and guile, not a good strong Fereldan woman like Anora.

"If I am to speak, Anora, it is to cast my gauntlet at your feet and challenge you to a duel before the Landsmeet as is my right as a freewoman of Ferelden," Mara replied, her voice cold and curt.

"You… _What?_" Anora practically yelped as the Cousland bitch withdrew a blue-dyed duelling gauntlet and tossed it onto the dais with unerring accuracy. It landed at Anora's feet with a soft thud as gasps echoed around the chamber. "Have you gone _insane?_"

"If you would be Queen of Ferelden during a Blight, you must prove your status as a warrior. Since I was at Ostagar – as many of your own people, up to and including your father, can attest – I have no need. But you have never even led a raid against bandits. You sent an assassin to collect the heirs of those who could influence the Landsmeet vote. I don't think you've even touched anything bigger than a carving knife since you were my age." Mara regarded Anora coldly. "I won't deny I have broken my marriage vows. But my vow to remain in the Chantry until my children were born was superseded by my duty as Bann of Whitebridge to serve at Ostagar. So fight me before the Landsmeet and prove you are a fit Queen for a country at war."

"You have got to be kidding me," Anora responded flatly. What ploy of Mara's was this… idiocy… concealing? She looked at Alistair to try and gauge his feelings on this – the templar she recalled wouldn't want 'his woman' going into danger. But aside from the rippling tension in his jaw-muscles, he remained hard-faced and neutral in expression.

"If you won't duel her, then get off that dais and retire to Gwaren or wherever you see fit," Alfstanna challenged. "The women of Waking Sea have always carried weapons in defence of their homeland. Surely the daughter of the Hero of River Dane could do no less?"

Anora added the Bann of Waking Sea's name to the list of people who needed to die – just after Mara and Eleanor Cousland's. It seemed intransigence and treason ran in their blood.

"She has a point, Anora," Loghain said regretfully. Blast her father's sense of honour. "However, since it will take until Cloudreach at least to convene a Landsmeet, you will have plenty of time to refresh your skills."

The general strode forth and looked the Bastard Prince in the eye. "As dearly as we'd like to settle the question of the succession quickly, it will take time to replenish and replace what was lost at Ostagar because of my regrettably necessary withdrawal to save what was left of Ferelden's army. So I say we put everything on hold and work together to combat the Blight; your elven militia will be recognised and added to the forces."

"Those who aren't dying of the plague, at least," observed Habren Bryland, one of Anora's supporters, dryly. The chit was affecting a surprising elegance, no doubt the work of her new Antivan maid Jolaine; Anora would need to keep her close and marry her off soon to make sure she'd not become another Mara.

"A truce until after Harvestmere so we can focus on getting as much grown and gathered in the arable lands as possible," Alistair countered. "We'll lose fertile fields to the taint as the darkspawn horde advances; food will be important in the coming days."

Then the Bastard Prince looked at Daveth and Jory. "And the removal of the bounty on the Grey Wardens. Any student of history will know that only an archdemon can be slain by the Grey Wardens… and they will need to collect treaties owed to them."

"I should allow the Grey Wardens to traipse around the countryside gathering an army-" Loghain began heatedly, only to be interrupted by a cough from Rennio d'Antiva.

"I will accompany them. That way no one gets in trouble," he offered mildly – much to Jory and Daveth's obvious disgust.

"…Very well," her father agreed grudgingly. "I trust the Bastard Prince and the Runaway Wife will be going into the field?"

"Since I doubt Anora's going anywhere, Mara's remaining in Denerim with Arl Teagan and my hearthman Zevran Arainai," Alistair replied quietly. "I will be leading the forces which answer to me with Bann Alfstanna as my second."

"You're leaving your wife with the former Houndmaster and an Antivan Crow answering to her? Looking to play the Game of Princes now, are we?" Nate, finally speaking, challenged the Prince with a sneer.

Alistair grinned savagely. "Not at all. My wife's perfectly capable of doing it on her own. And just because the armies aren't fighting each other doesn't mean the ladies won't keep up the politics while we're out there."

"Then to keep things fair, Nathanial Howe will be remaining in Denerim too," Loghain retorted harshly. "Anora will need his support as they are going to marry."

"And to think he kissed Mara in front of the King at Ostagar only six weeks ago," Alistair murmured dryly. "I suppose if I couldn't win the Laurel Queen, I'd have to settle for the Bitch Queen."

Someone in the crowd of lesser nobility brayed with laughter; much to Anora's fury, it was the plain-faced Captain Kylon, Alistair's main lackey in Denerim. He was already on thin ice because of his public challenging of her father's authority, but now the ice was cracking and soon he'd join his traitorous Corporal Yarin in Fort Drakon.

"From what I know of Mara Cousland, I'd say 'Whore Queen' would be a better descriptor," Anora retorted icily as smirks rippled across the faces of the crowd.

"Beggin' yer pardon, M'Lady, but the one time I suggested Mara head ta the Pearl ta keep us both from starvin', she nailed me a good one in the nuts," Daveth interjected cheerfully. "Girl mighta got 'round a bit, but she ain't a whore."

"No one asked for your opinion, Grey Warden," Loghain grated.

"He'll give it anyways," Jory said wearily.

"She mightn't be paid for it in coin, but Mara Cousland has a talent for landing on her back," Anora continued coldly. "It is a pity her Antivan wiles ensnared you, Prince Alistair."

"I courted her even after she told me I should find another woman because she'd damage my cause," Alistair responded quietly. "_You_ see a woman who's broken her vows, Anora. _I_ see a woman who was betrayed by husband and the Crown, leaving her no choice but to do what she had to survive."

"That's what she wanted you to see," Anora said, watching Mara closely to see how she'd react to the truth being revealed about her, all because Alistair let his own anger at her (at the time) necessary actions out. The more they talked, the better she looked, it seemed. "But she's Antivan, practically – they're all liars and seducers."

"Is that so?" Rennio d'Antiva, who'd remained remarkably silent during the slandering of his foster daughter, observed mildly.

"The women, I should have clarified," Anora replied, trying not to sound hasty about correcting herself. They needed d'Antiva – for the moment.

"Speaking of Antivan women… _Dona_ Eleanor, where is my sister and nephew?" Rennio asked, changing the subject quickly, looking over to the Cousland matriarch.

"Oren is in the care of Enchanter Aldous as he has become a mage," Eleanor replied carefully. "Oriana's… _handling_… of the situation meant that it was deemed best she retire to the Chantry for a while. If you come around to the Redcliffe estate before you go to gather those treaties, I'll fill you in."

_"Mierde,"_ Rennio muttered under his breath, actually looking worried. It was good to know he had weaknesses she could exploit.

"Your actions involving the heirs of the Bannorn will _not_ be forgotten, Anora," Mara said suddenly, ice-blue eyes gleaming in the light of a hundred candles. "Half your supporters are bound to you because you hold them."

"I protected them and will continue to do so," Anora replied coldly. "And remember that _your_ _own_ offspring are amongst them, Mara Cousland."

The girl's gaze flickered briefly and Anora smiled inwardly to know she'd scored a hit. But then the chit raised her eyes and gave a truly terrible smile.

"Pay good attention to your arms master, Anora Mac Tir, for the day will come that we look at each other across the edges of our swords. And on that day you will learn why nothing can bow the laurel save that which it wishes to."

_I will see you dead before the Landsmeet, you little harlot,_ Anora vowed as she turned from the slut and her fool of a husband and walked away.


	12. Chapter 11

Note: About three more chapters at most in this work. The next two 'books' in this series will be split between the events in Denerim _(Queens and Hounds)_ and the gathering of the treaties with an emphasis on Orzammar_ (Kings and Griffins)._ So the next couple chapters will be setting up for that.

Brytta Brosca from the _Diamondverse_ stories will also exist in this AU; she's too awesome a character not to use. You won't need to read _A Diamond in Dust Town_ or any of its sequels as her history will diverge significantly in the Gamesverse.

…

**Chapter 11**

Redcliffe Estate, Denerim, 27th Cassus (Night)

Ser Jory, to say the least, was unimpressed by their new companion.

At Ostagar, once he'd survived the Joining, he'd taken the opportunity to ask Duncan why he despised the Antivan so very much. The half-Rivaini Warden-Commander had looked out over the gathering gloom of the darkspawn horde, chewing meditatively on his final meal of venison jerky and dried apricots, and finally replied, "Because until today he has never fought a darkspawn. His blood was delivered to him in a silver cup and his birth saved him from patrolling the Deep Roads of Antiva. The politics, I could have forgiven, even the keeping of his lands where others lost both title and home on joining the Wardens – if only he had recalled the _primary_ purpose of our Order."

Perceptive words from a wise man. D'Antiva was distracted by the politics of Denerim and his alliance with the traitor Loghain to truly focus on where he was needed the most. Jory had to repeatedly force himself from worrying about Helena in Highever to focus on the archdemon. By killing the beast he could truly ensure the safety of his wife and child.

At least the Wardens (in theory) would remain unmolested by the factions in Ferelden. Anora held an unfair advantage by having the underage heirs of the Bannorn as effective hostages, no matter how much she claimed it was 'for their safety'… But Jory couldn't get involved. He and Daveth had their own duties to a fair greater foe than simple politics.

He worried for Prince Alistair, who'd be out in the field fighting darkspawn, and Princess Mara, who'd be facing Anora and Nathanial in Denerim. Jory had never been quite certain what 'The Game of Princes' was beyond politics, but Mara and Teagan's discussions of Gamesmasters and the murder game sounded worrisome indeed. Yet everyone had faith that the frail-looking Mara knew how to play it – and well.

"Ya know, if'n Wardens wasn't needed ta kill the archdemon, I'd lose that bastard in the Deep Roads," Daveth observed flatly as he entered the room the two Junior Wardens had to share.

"I take it he's trying to pull rank already?" Jory asked as he continued to clean out the veridium heavy plate gained from the Wardens' Denerim compound. Daveth had flagrantly helped himself to a set of drakeskin scout's leathers and dragonbone daggers, mostly to annoy d'Antiva who'd donned a set of sable-hued drakeskin-and-dragonbone articulated armour that screamed 'assassin'.

"In between threatenin' ta kill me for what I said an' did 'bout Mara, bitchin' at Milady Eleanor for what happened with his sister, offerin' unwanted advice ta Teagan an' tellin' Mara that she was a damn fool taday an' he'd raised her to be smarter," Daveth reported as he drew a Grey Warden dagger to check its edge.

"And we're stuck with him," Jory groaned. He rubbed his balding, close-cropped scalp and indulged in a soft Alamarri curse.

"Yup. That's why we're goin' mages then Orzammar," Daveth said as he got out a whetstone and weapon oil. "'Cause the Warden-Commander of Orzammar's an old lady friend'a Duncan's who ain't goin' ta take his shit."

Jory found it hard to imagine the stern, guarded Duncan having a 'lady friend' but Daveth had been in the order longer than him, so he had to trust the thief. "I didn't know Orzammar had a garrison."

"Yeah. Warden-Commander Brytta Brosca an' Warden-Second Trian Aeducan run it. Duncan told me she's a Duster ex-Carta thug who won a Glory Provin' disguised as Warrior Caste, then got taken by her old boss 'cause dead women can't tell no tales. Then she slaughtered his arse, killed half the Carta with her friend, an' wound up being recruited by Duncan."

"Carta? Duster?"

"Cartas are the dwarven organised crime gangs. Dusters… They're born outside'a dwarven society, so's all they can be is criminals or noble hunters. Don't know a lot 'bout 'em but Duncan was tellin' me lots about Brytta 'cause he said I reminded him lots of her."

Jory tried to imagine a female dwarven Daveth… and managed to repress his shudder. If she kept the Antivan in line, he'd be glad of her aid.

Daveth finished sharpening his knife and looked at the knight. "Get some rest, Ser Knight. We gots a long walk ahead'a us tomorrow."

The warrior followed his rogue colleague's example but not before kissing the locket containing a portrait of Helena and a lock of his baby's hair. He wondered where Duncan was in the Fade and hoped that the grizzled Warden would approve of his son being named after him.

…

Market Watch House, Denerim, 28th Cassus (Morning)

"So. Morna the laundress, Daveth's little tart, is really the Runaway Wife… and now yours, Alistair. Hope you know what you're doing."

Sergeant Olin Brosca usually spoke like the ignorant Duster he'd been born and raised as, mostly to either set commoners at ease or let criminals feel more superior to him and trip up, but for once he decided to act like the Watchman Kylon had taught him to be. He and the other Nighters had joined their Captain at the Watch House so they could give their Arl a briefing before he headed out to fight the darkspawn.

The woman he'd so maligned simply inclined her head with a wry smile reminiscent of Yarin as Alistair's hand automatically twitched towards a weapon at the insult to his wife. Becoming a Prince and going to Ostagar had changed their blushing Chantry Boy into a hardened warrior; Olin missed that lad even as he knew the man would be a king of legends. All they had to do was get Anora's nug-humping arse off the throne, string Loghain up by the neck, and send Nate Howe to the Grey Wardens so he might actually be of some use.

"So, you are one of the infamous Brosca clan, _si?_" the blue-eyed girl asked shrewdly. Olin had heard it said by Kylon that she knew everything about everyone on Thedas… It looked like it was true.

"What do you mean by 'infamous'?" he asked curiously, knowing damned well what she meant about his daughters.

"Your eldest daughter Rica is chief concubine to Prince Bhelen Aeducan, known for his progressive policies and sympathies towards the casteless; your youngest daughter is Brytta Brosca, Warden-Commander of Orzammar and the first Duster to have her victory in a Glory Proving recognised by the Shaperate," Mara promptly replied.

"Well, you know who's who, I'll give you that," Olin conceded before pouring himself a tankard of Black Tar Brew, a heavy black beer that could kill a human in three tankards.

"Everyone except Anora's people agrees that Mara got a raw deal," Kylon pointed out as he settled for a flagon of weaker human ale. Olin had long given up trying to educate topsiders on how to drink properly, though Alistair had given it a good shot. "And the Couslands are still respected, Olin."

"Indeed," Alistair confirmed as he gave the blue-clad Mara, who looked rather frail and pale for a girl her age, a warm smile. "The other reasons are the fact she's trained as a noblewoman – to rule and lead – where I haven't been yet; that she's of proven fertility, a thing we direly need when the Theirin line is hanging by a thread; and that our mabaris practically matchmade us."

The little mutt who belonged to the Prince barked approvingly as the bigger, hulking beast that Mara had called Cu nodded affirmatively. Damn dogs were smarter than most of the Day Watch.

"I know in Ferelden you practically let the dogs run the show, but I remember the Chantry Boy who stumbled into my little brawl and saved my arse. So I'll just say this, Milady Mara: fuck with the boy and you fuck with the Night Watch." Olin's words were echoed by nods and noises of assent as the Nighters all stared Mara down, who met each of their eyes bravely, that wry half-smile on her lips.

"Understood," the girl replied quietly with that distinctly Antivan head-bow thing.

"Nice to know you trust my judgment," Alistair drawled, amber-gold eyes twinkling. Then he lost the humour in his gaze and looked Kylon squarely in the eyes. "So Yarin's in Fort Drakon and I take it we're not in control of the fortress?"

"Yes," Kylon confirmed grimly. "Howe's taken over it as 'Houndmaster'."

"I imagine Arl Teagan will want a word with him," the Prince said with a sharp smile. "Several, in fact."

"No doubt," Kylon agreed with a grim smirk. "I'll be happy to assist the Princess and the Arl any way I can."

"Be prepared for trouble. Once the armies are gone, chaos will descend upon Denerim under the cloak of darkness," Mara said quietly. "The Game of Princes will rule during the day… But it will be the murder game which dominates the night."

"A game I suppose you intend to play?" Kylon asked, brown eyes dangerous. It was well known that this girl was raised by an Antivan Crow Grandmaster.

"Give me a list of the wicked and traitorous you cannot touch; you'll find the two go hand-in-hand more than you might think," Mara replied with surprising serenity. The girl was practically blank-faced but for the subtle twitches of eye and mouth that indicated her worry. Olin'd give her this: she was genuinely worried for Alistair. "I will see if I can bring their crimes to light and force the Landsmeet to do something. But if Anora raises the stakes…"

"…Which she will," Kylon agreed grimly.

"…Then I will respond in kind. But only until she does, Captain Kylon; by the Mother of the Bride of the Maker and my immortal soul I swear."

That was a fairly serious oath for Antivan women, who held Brona in high esteem. No one from that land would make such an oath lightly – even a Crow. Kylon nodded in reluctant agreement. "Fine. Then we are yours, Milady Mara."

"See if you can stop the lockdown on the alienage," Alistair commanded.

"Not without starting a civil war within our ranks," Olin said regretfully. "Howe's got half the bastards in his pocket."

"I need a list of all acknowledged bastards and their parents," Mara told the Sergeant. "Some of those men might be heirs to bannorn."

Olin grinned as he understood the drift of her thought. "If _we_ bring it to their attention before Howe does… Nicely done, girl."

"Thank you," Mara said modestly. "Much of this is knowing who is who, what is what, and how they all fit together."

"Sounds like brewing." Olin decided to test the girl and her health a little. He poured her a half-tankard of Black Tar Brew and offered it to her.

"Hold on a moment, love, I'll just get the old sock to chew just to get the taste out of your mouth," Alistair joked.

"You told me you'd mistaken it for jerky!" Olin said, feeling wounded, as the girl gingerly lifted the accepted tankard to her lips.

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings," the Prince countered with a grin.

_"Dolce Madre della Sacra Sposa del Costruttore!"_ Mara swore after sipping at the brew. "I never thought to find _Bevanda del Diavolo_ here!"

"We call it Black Tar Brew," Olin said with a smirk.

"We just call it Devil's Drink in Antiva," the girl retorted before holding her nose, opening her mouth, and sculling the beer. She managed to do so without spluttering, gagging, coughing or dying, a fact which impressed Olin. Perhaps she was just one of those topsiders who looked sickly but were really healthy as a horse.

He didn't fault her for remaining silent as Alistair finished up the briefing, made his farewells, and then took his wife home as the morning shift of the Dayers came in to take over the Watch House. That stuff had a knack for ruining vocal chords.

Nor did he fault her for the wet patch left in the rushes after she'd gone; wouldn't be the first topsider to piss herself after drinking Black Tar Brew. He was just impressed she managed to hold her drink for so long.

Maybe his Chantry Boy hadn't been so dumb to choose her after all.

…

Redcliffe Estate, 28th Cassus (Early Afternoon)

"Gah. If holding that vile drink in my throat has ruined my voice, I will assassinate that dwarf."

Mara made the vow fervently after swallowing soothing syrup of honey, mint and elfroot to ease her poor suffering throat. She'd managed to spill most of it in the rushes by her chair, but had to keep enough in her mouth to convince the dwarf she'd swallowed his Devil's Drink.

"You've got his good regard for eternity," Alistair said cheerfully, giving her that naughty smile which curled her toes and warmed her heart. He deserved a much better wife than she but she was selfish enough to keep him close. No other woman would have him while she lived.

"I'm not sure it was worth it," she groused.

He laughed and her heart soared. Though Anora held her children and soon she would be caught alone in the city with the man who'd hurt her so deeply, Mara knew that she had another reason to play the Game to win. No one would hurt Alistair while she lived, she vowed for the umpteenth time.

It would be a hard, bloody time of it in Denerim once Loghain and Alistair, the two most honourable linchpins of the rival factions, were gone. Rennio had spent most of the day before calling her a damned fool for allying herself with Alistair when Nathanial was the stronger man. Much as she loved the father of her heart, Mara knew that a schemer like the Prince of Crows would never understand how an honourable man like Alistair was stronger than Nathanial.

Alistair kept her grounded and balanced in the morass of ambiguous morality with his shining certainty of right and wrong. He was her North Star, the one truly good thing in her life. With Nathanial, she would have lost her way, surely…

She regretted being unable to help the Arl of Amaranthine. It was more than half her fault he was on the wrong side and about to be tied to that bitch Anora. But she couldn't abandon the man she'd sworn herself to…

"I'll bring back the Ashes to save your father," Alistair promised softly, his breath stirring her hair as he came to embrace her.

"Thank you, _mi amor,_" she murmured in reply as she let him draw her up for a kiss. In Antiva, she would have waited a year or two between birthings before trying to conceive again…

…But this wasn't Antiva and they didn't have the luxury of time. One way or another, the Theirin line had to be secured.

Maker willing, this wouldn't be the death of her, she prayed as her husband claimed her lips in a hungry, desperate kiss, for he'd go on the morrow. Maker willing they'd all survive…


	13. Epilogue

Note: Okay, might end this part of the series at this cryptic little epilogue; otherwise, I'll just be repeating crap (should've merged _The Runaway Wife _and _The Taken Heirs_ into one work). Thanks for sticking with me and I'll try to promise to update this at least once a month (gotta love the holidays!).

…

**Epilogue**

Royal Palace, Denerim, 28th Cassus 9:30 (Night)

"We need to strike before Mara does!"

"And if we do that, Anora, the Runaway Wife looks better than you."

"Not if she's dead."

"It is not your reputation which concerns you, then, but your survival?"

"That little harlot couldn't beat me in a duel."

"Don't make me laugh. The girl is trained as both bard and Crow, Anora."

_"What?!"_

"She played you by agreeing to go quietly to Lothering, Anora. She got connections to the Amells of Kirkwall and bardic training from a Chantry lay sister named Leliana whilst there."

"That little-!"

"You would do best to work on your skills as a warrior, Anora, because you have pissed off a girl who's trained directly with one Gamesmaster and been indirectly trained by another. Even half-trained, Mara Theirin-"

"-Mara Howe-"

"-Is simply better at the Game and the murder game than you. Do not confront her directly unless you are tired of living."

"But she has allies… I'll need to execute some traitors, it seems."

"Oh yes. Even better. Kill the people she loves!"

"And what would you do if you were me, Antivan?"

"Work on her youth and inexperience. Promote your own experience as a ruler. Undermine her allies' reputations… Maker's breath, woman, these are simple skills every noble child possesses in Antiva! What do they teach you in Ferelden?"

"I focused on learning the art of governance."

"That is only half of rulership, Anora."

"I am perfectly capable of playing politics, you know."

"Of _course_ you are."

"Insult me again and I'll have you thrown in prison."

"Threaten me again and your head will be delivered to Mara Theirin on a dragonbone platter within the hour."

"How dare you threaten me, Antivan!"

"It is no threat. It is a promise."

"You'd better deliver on the other promises you've made me, Antivan, or you will die."

"Do not fret, Anora. I _always_ keep my promises."


End file.
